


static

by lilabut



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Challenge Response, Character Death, Explicit Language, F/M, Major Character Injury, Past Child Abuse, Past Domestic Violence, Pre-Series, Season/Series 01, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-05-25 13:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 52,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6196597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilabut/pseuds/lilabut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>As he takes in the view from the twentieth floor, the lights go out all over the city.</i> Daryl and Carol meet as Atlanta falls, and the road of carnage lies somberly ahead of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. static.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the _The First Line's the Charm_ challenge at Nine Lives.

There’s been rumors of war and wars that have been

The meaning of life has been lost in the wind

And some people thinkin’ that the end is close by

’Stead of learnin’ to live they are learnin’ to die

 

 _Let Me Die In My Footsteps_ , Bob Dylan

 

As he takes in the view from the twentieth floor, the lights go out all over the city. Next to him, the woman gasps, terrified. Her hands cover her mouth, stifling the sound. What did she say her name was? Karen. Caroline. No. Carol, yes. Carol.

 

 _Oh God._ Her voice is muffled by blood-stained hands, and even in the sudden darkness, Daryl can see the wetness in her eyes.

 

Below them, the streets are still illuminated by the cars that block the road. They tint the asphalt red, and shadows move hurriedly like ghosts.

 

Daryl presses his palm against the window. In the sky, helicopters circle like vultures above their prey, and he can not remember having ever felt as trapped as he does now. A glass cage high above the nightmarish figures that haunt the ground as his prison.

 

Carol's tears swell inside her eyes before spilling over, trickling down her face until they meet her quivering hands. Her quiet sobs fill the silence, a ragged rhythm that swells for endless minutes before it slowly fades.

 

Daryl steps away from the window, tired of watching strangers being torn apart in the streets below. He leaves behind a bloody hand print on the glass.

 

Carol does not move, and he wonders why she tortures herself this way, shining eyes unable to tear themselves away from the carnage of the falling city.

 

For a moment, he takes in the sight of her. Short gray hair and long, slender limbs; the outline of her body is merely a silhouette in the dark, one that is wrecked by dry sobs and heaving breaths.

 

 

 

Eventually, she turns her back to the window and sinks down against it, hugging her knees tightly to her chest.

 

* * *

 

 

Merle had been right. He never should have gone back for the truck, all their supplies be damned. But Daryl wasn't going to just leave it all behind, especially not his crossbow. Not when the streets were swarming with those snarling, biting bastards, snapping their blood-stained teeth at them and dragging their legs along the hot asphalt.

 

Sweat pours down his face, slicking his hair to his forehead and plastering his shirt to his chest. The crossbow is strung over his shoulder, the heavy backpack strapped to his back. The weight of both slows him down, but the street is too jammed with cars and screaming people, running and yelling and bumping into him. The crowd carries him in the wrong direction, but the current is too strong to just stop and turn around.

 

It takes all his strength to work his way towards the high walls of the buildings, and eventually, he presses himself against the cement wall, watching as the crowd pushes past him.

 

Daryl slowly makes his way into an alleyway. His lungs burn from the exertion, and he allows himself a moment to catch his breath, pressing his palms into his thighs. The ground drums under the weight of thousands of footsteps, vibrating against the soles of his boots.

 

Around him, the city is moaning and aching. It smells of blood, sweat, smoke and decay, filled with screams and snarls and the thunder of helicopters circling it from above. Somewhere nearby, a car alarm goes off, the repetitive beeping shrill but nearly suffocated by the crowd that still edges its way through the street like an avalanche.

 

He needs to find another way back.

 

* * *

 

 

His way is blocked by a tank, and nearly a dozen biters tearing somebody apart. There is no way past them, not without getting noticed. The street is nearly empty, except for a few broken down cars, torn apart corpses scattered in pools of blood and broken glass crunching beneath his boots.

 

One of the bastards is approaching him from his right, half of its face torn off, shreds of flesh hanging by a thread from exposed bones. It reaches for him, moaning in a frenzy, and Daryl quickly buries his knife in its right eye before it can attract too much attention.

 

Limply, it falls to the ground. As he stands there above it, looking down at the young woman with long dark hair and a white summer dress, Daryl realizes that there is no chance to get back to Merle.

 

And even if he found a way through the maze, there is no point. Merle would not be there anymore, waiting for him. If he is still alive, and he needs to believe that, then he is somewhere else now.

 

* * *

 

_Help!_

 

Daryl hardly hears the scream over the rush of his blood in his ears. He can not locate it, not when his brain has shut down to one task only: running. One quick glance over his shoulder, and he realizes that the small herd chasing him has grown, and he picks up his pace, barely feeling his feet touch the ground.

 

The same voice screams again, and when he rounds a corner, nearly slipping on some poor fellow's intestines, he sees her.

 

She is pressed against the ground, her arms pushing worthlessly against the chest of a snarling child. It snaps at her, grabs her upper arms, eyes foggy and lifeless. Its shoulder is a mess of torn flesh, the green shirt soaked through with blood, caking in the heat.

 

The woman struggles to push the child off of her, and for a moment, Daryl considers leaving her to meet her fate.

 

But then the child overwhelms her, her arms giving in, and before he can make up his mind, Daryl makes a sharp turn to his right, crossing the distance in a few wide strides.

 

His hands grab the child's shoulders deftly. They are bony, and beneath his firm touch, he can hear them cracking. It makes him sick, just like the gurgle of blood when he rams his knife into the soft skin at the base of the little boy's skull.

 

 _He bit ya?_ he shouts, the noise of the dying city and the blood rushing in his ears nearly muting his words. The woman looks terrified, her eyes wide open, the kid's blood splattered like freckles across her pale face. She shakes her head, and Daryl chooses to believe her. _Come on._

 

He drops the boy's corpse onto the concrete, grabbing the woman by her shoulders. She shakes and sways when he pulls her up, but there is no time for her to pull herself together. The snarls and moans and dragging footsteps grow louder.

 

Panic rising inside of him, Daryl’s eyes fall on the rotating glass door. Time to make a plan is a precious gift that he does not have, and so he simply drags the woman along, making his way to the door. Her feet get caught on the boy's arm, nearly falling, but Daryl's grip on her is strong.

 

Pushing her through the door first, he takes one last look at the little boy on the ground. Open eyes face the darkening sky. He can not be more than five years old.

 

Resisting the urge to throw up, Daryl pushes through the door, watching it turn and turn and turn until finally, it comes to a halt.

 

* * *

 

 _I need to get back to my daughter._ Carol's voice is hoarse, marred by her tears and the fear that gleams in her eyes. She has since moved from the window, curled up against the edge of the smooth wooden desk instead. Her fingers hover above the dozens of candles they have lit, emitting a sickeningly sweet scent.

 

The late summer heat is trapped in the small office, humid and so thick that Daryl thinks he can cut through it was his knife. Still, the candles are the only source of light, and in the dance of the flames, he carefully watches Carol.

 

 _Where is she?_ he asks, noticing that there are still speckles of blood dotting her face. She has scrubbed her face raw earlier, before the city went dark, but there, just above her left eyebrow, a small splatter still remains.

 

 _With her father_ , Carol sighs, her head falling backwards against the desk with a thud. _Just outside the city._ Her face is alive with the shadows of the flames, and as it glows in hues of orange, anger obscures her features. It hardens her eyes, tenses her jaw and crinkles her forehead. _I never should have left her alone with him, but I had a doctor's appointment in town and... I didn't want to go because of the news, but..._ Daryl senses more to her despair than the mere separation from her daughter, fresh tears dwelling in her eyes. She wipes them away with her sleeve, taking a deep breath. _I should have stayed with her._

 

 _Couldn't have known_. Hell, he hadn't known. He'd seen those monsters up close, more than a handful of them, had watched the blurry and panic-driven news reports, listened to the vague instructions on the radio. And still, despite all of it, he could never have predicated how quickly everything would fall apart.

 

He chews on a granola bar without much appetite, the scent of vanilla and roses too pungent, mingling with the stench of blood and decay that clings to them both.

 

 _Were you alone?_ She is quiet and timid, still full of fear. But her eyes are suddenly filled with curiosity, even though she speaks the words with the utmost care.

 

Throwing the plastic wrap of his meager dinner into a corner, Daryl shakes his head. _Nah. Was with my brother._ The hardwood floor is uncomfortable, his ass slowly going numb, and so he shuffles around for a moment, eventually giving up with an unsatisfied huff. _I went back for our truck an' all our stuff. Was gonna meet up with him. But shit went down so fast, never made it back._

 

 _Maybe he got out._ Daryl does not understand why she said that, all reassuringly and with a little smile. It makes him uncomfortable, and so he looks away, grabs his knife from the floor and wipes it against his pants. The crusted blood comes off a little, dusting the expensive floor with crimson flakes.

 

 _He did_ , he eventually states, not feeling quite as confident as he is attempting to sound. Most likely, his brother is just another corpse on the streets, guts spilling and face torn apart. His throat tightens at the thought. Keeping his face determinedly pointed towards his lap, he fights to withstand the tell-tale prickle of tears that burns in his eyes. When he speaks again, his voice is a little more high-pitched, and a lot raspier than usual. _Toughest son of a bitch I know, my brother._

 

* * *

 

They barricade themselves in the small office complex for two days, for lack of a better option. Outside, the streets are swarming with the Dead, gunshots firing rapidly, and the dull thunder of the helicopters eventually becomes background noise.

 

With the power still out, the small kitchen does not offer much except an unopened bottle of cranberry juice, a few chocolate bars and some fruit. It's better than nothing, though, they both agree, stomach grumbling loudly as they nibble away, savoring what little they have.

 

The second night, sleeping curled up on the floor on a rug that probably cost more than all the money Daryl has ever earned in his life, he wakes with a start. His ears ring from the loud, thundering noise, the ground shaking. Within a second, he stands on his feet, holding on to the desk as the Earth seems to spin.

 

Suddenly, the once dark room is lightened up in angry reds and oranges. Outside, the city is beginning to be consumed by flames.

 

 _What's happening?_ Carol appears next to him, arms crossed in front of her chest. He does not answer, not when she can see exactly what is happening. The answer to her question blazes outside, tall buildings going down in flames, crumbling like stacks of cards. The world is on fire.

 

Both of them are oddly calm, standing there in front of the large window, staring into the flames.

 

 _Gotta get outta the city_ , Daryl eventually mutters, watching a swarm of shadows in the street below heading slowly towards the fire that has engulfed the building at the corner.

 

 _How are we going to get out? They're everywhere._ He can't see a way out, neither. But he'd rather die out there, torn apart and eaten alive but trying, than starve to death in here, watching the world crumble into ashes from a distance.

 

* * *

 

The blood on the windshield proves a challenge for the wipers, screeching and staggering as they move at the highest speed. The sunlight blinds Daryl as he pushes his foot down on the gas pedal, the empty highway laid out before them. In the rear view mirror, the city quickly falls behind, the skyline outlined by dark smoke.

 

The seat is sticky, and he is sure that he has some guy's brain smashed all over his back, making squishy sounds whenever he leans back that make him want to throw up on the steering wheel. Carol is quiet in the passenger seat, and when he sneaks a glance at her – blood all over her chest (and he knows now that there are actual freckles amongst the crimson constellation), short hair glistening with sweat, clutching his knife so tightly that her knuckles have turned pale, he worries.

 

He has seen his fair share of blood in his lifetimes. Mostly animals, but what is the difference, really? Carol, however, seems to make a difference. To him, those monsters have quickly stopped being remotely human, but to her... She could not fight off that small child, not because she was not strong enough, but because she could not do harm to a child. To her, they were still somewhat human. _What's her name?_ Her eyes follow the sheer infinite stretch of cars that had tried to make their way out of the city, all abandoned now.

 

 _Sorry?_ she asks, but she neither looks at him nor seems to have really listened.

 

 _Ya little girl._ He slows down the truck a little when a bunch of cars come into view, broken down with shattered windows. As they drive past, he can see the people inside, limp and dead and gone.

 

 _Sophia_ , Carol sighs, the name passing her lips like a chant. It almost sounds like a smile is curling her lips, but Daryl keeps his eyes fixed on the road.

 

Perhaps her daughter is what kept Carol going back in the city. The only reason she followed after him, took his knife with trembling fingers when he pushed it into her hands. The memories of her little girl kept her heart pumping and her breath flowing, shut down her cries of fear when they ran down the ash and blood-covered streets.

 

Now, that driving force is melting away, and Daryl is shaken by the discovery that he does not want it to. _Gonna take ya there_ , he announced with determination in his voice. _Maybe they're still around_. He doubts it, not when the news and the radio had told everybody to take refuge in the city. Most likely, Carol's husband and daughter were not ahead of them, but behind them, roaming the streets as shadows of themselves or torn apart, rotting away in the heat of the sun. Those thoughts, though, he keeps to himself.

 

 _Why?_ The question is as soft as a spring breeze, and he can hear the tears that dwell in her blue eyes like morning dew. He wants to look, truly. Look into her eyes and tell her that everything will be fine. Only, nothing has ever been fine in his world, not even before hell opened its gates.

 

 _Ain't got the first clue where to look for Merle_ , he admits. It's partially true, but certainly not his most pressing reason. They had stopped by the apartment complex where he was supposed to meet Merle three days ago, but the place had burned down to nothing, windows nothing but gaping black holes. No way to track him down. This is the easier explanation, more rational and reasonable than his inexplicable need for her to not give up. _Got nothin' better ta do._

 

It is because he saved her life, he tells himself. Maybe, if he had decided to let that little boy tear her apart, he would have found a way back to Merle before the city went down in flames. Or maybe he would have died, all alone in some alley under the weight of a dozen walking corpses. Carol giving up hope now, giving in to the horrors they have just faced and that are bound to come their way further down this road, would mean his good deed was in vain. Yes, that must be why.

 

Cool fingers suddenly curl around his forearm, muscles flexing at the unexpected touch. _Thank you_ , Carol murmurs, quickly pulling her hand away when she notices the tension her touch has caused. The imprint of her fingers, however, echoes for a long while after they have dropped back into her lap.

 

* * *

 

_I don't know what I expected._

 

She stands in the middle of her abandoned living room with tears dwelling in her eyes, slender arms wrapped around her middle, blood crusting beneath her short-trimmed fingernails. The room is perfect, like something taken straight from the glossy pages of a magazine. Plush creme-colored couch with perfectly placed and color-coordinated throw pillows, white wooden tiles on the walls, framed family photos in neat rows, pressed navy curtains, an organized bookshelf that spans the wall. It looks to him as if nobody has ever lived here. Instead, it feels like a fraud, lifeless, far away from anything he has ever known.

 

He is smearing mud and blood and guts on the pale blue carpet, but guesses the days of worrying about those kind of things have passed. Even, or most especially, for her.

 

 _I'm so stupid_ , she hisses through her tears, and he avoids looking at her in a weak attempt to grant her some privacy. His eyes scan the spines of the many books that have been rowed up. Novels, biographies, kids' books. _Why would they still be here?_ Her pain is familiar to him, the thoughts of Merle never quite fading, and when the world turns too silent, he can hear his brother's disappointment.

 

She sounds angry now, angry at herself for hoping that she might still find her daughter. In return, Daryl feels guilty for taking her here, knowing how slim the chances had been in the first place. Slim, but not non-existent. _There was a chance_ , he mutters, scratching his chin. He looks around the room and out of the window, dusk setting at a rapid speed. _Maybe they got out in time._ There is always the chance of that. There is always a chance that Merle is still out there, alive.

 

Carol shakes her head, and her defeat stirs inexplicable anger inside of him. She has given up. _She's gone._

 

* * *

 

 

She is perched on the very edge of her kitchen chair, two candles flickering on the table. Daryl fixes the the thick, dark green blanket he has covered the window with, catching a glimpse of a few of those bastards walking at a slow pace down the road in front of the house. Neatly cut lawn is soiled with blood, white fences broken. The picture-perfect imagery of this neighborhood has turned into a wicked nightmare.

 

 _There's some food left, you can take some_ , Carol tells him with a monotone and lifeless voice. All the spirit has been drained from her, and even in the yellow light of the candles, she looks pale and frightened. _And Ed left most of his clothes, and there-_

 

 _What ya talkin 'bout?_ Daryl interrupts her, keeping his voice down. Feeling the weariness in his bones for the first time since they left their shelter in Atlanta, he sinks down on a chair opposite her. Briefly, he wants to take them back in time, to those two days where there was still hope.

 

 _You'll need supplies_. It sounds final, a simple truth accompanied by a light shrug of her shoulders. He thinks he understands what she is doing, pulling away and seeking refuge reeling in her own grief, but he will not have any of that. She owes him a chance.

 

 _And what about ya? You wanna stay here?_ He points at the kitchen, less pristine than the living room. Her husband and daughter clearly left in a hurry, the shelves and cupboards mostly emptied, broken plates and scattered pieces of cutlery littering the floor.

 

Carol raises her head slowly, as if it weighs a ton, looking at him with red eyes. The tears have stopped falling once the sun set and the snarls and moans outside picked up in volume and frequency. _They might come back_ , she whispers, holding on to a thread of hope that seems to begin weaving inside her. It is false hope, one that will get her killed.

 

He has already lost Merle because he chose to leave him behind and go out on his own. He will not make the same mistake again and leave this woman, this stranger, to her certain death. Leaving her here, he might as well jam his knife into her skull and end what little she has left of her life mercifully.

 

 _No, Carol._ It was not his intention to sound as aggravated as he does, but times have changed drastically in such a short span of time, and he has never been skilled at tenderness in the first place. _Ain't nobody comin' back here._ She flinches at his words, looking down at her folded hands on the dark wooden table top. Hands that once upon a time probably knitted scarf and ironed clothes and brushes her daughter's hair. Now, they are battered and bruised, carrying the remains of the creatures she has killed during their escape. _Look outside. There ain't nothin' left ta come back ta._

 

The streets are filled with biters, burned out cars lining the sidewalk, corpses rotting in the summer heat. _If ya stay, ya'll die._ Those words hardly shake Carol, and it's unsettling to see her so resigned and at ease with her fate. Hell, if he is going to die out there, he surely will not go down without a fight. No way he will hide away behind these walls and wait for the inevitable, neither. Not alone, and not because of her. _Your little girl, she's still out there._

 

Maybe it's selfish of him to play her fears like this, to balance them in the palms of his hands and use them in his favor. Carol sighs, a small sound that almost causes him to recoil in fear. Tears frighten him, other people's pain terrifies him more than his own, and she is the very definition of agony wrapped in a thin veil of sadness.

 

_I'll never see her again._

 

He swallows, biting his thumb. _Maybe not. Don't mean ya have ta sit here an' wait for them snarling bastards to tear you apart._

 

The crudeness of his words finally seems to get to her, clawing its way into underneath her skin. He notices the goose bumps and her quivering, but he says nothing. Albeit being silent for a few minutes, her eyes are narrowed, lost in thought. Eventually, she looks up at him with hesitant curiosity and defeat in equal measure. _Where are we going to go?_

 

His shrug leaves him with a dull pain between his shoulder blades. _Don't know. But we gotta._

 

* * *

 

It takes them all morning combing through her house and those of the people she once lived next door to, people with stories, people that have disappeared. Eventually they silently load the truck. Blankets, clothes, food, medicine, knives, a baseball bat, gas, maps, batteries, flashlights, matches, rope, tape, a tent.

 

Carol sits beside him when the engine roars to life, a picture of her daughter pinched between her fingers. A sweet little girl with a shy smile. He, too, wonders where she is. It renders him restless, fidgeting in the driver's seat.

 

Daryl never looks back when they turn around the corner, this place meaning nothing to him. But Carol turns her head, staring at her old home up until the moment it finally disappears. Something tells him she will never lay eyes on it again.

 

Before them, the unknown is spread out, static on the radio filling the heavy silence.


	2. dead end.

They ditch sleeping in the tent after the second night. There's simply no use. It offers them no protection from any stray walkers, meaning one of them needs to be on watch constantly. Protecting the other in their restless sleep. Keeping a tired eye on their belongings packed in the trunk of the truck. Both of them are too exhausted to stay up half the night and stare into the dark, their eyes heavy-lidded even during the day.

 

The truck becomes their temporary home. It provides enough shelter from the occasional walker that passes them, oblivious to the two warm bodies locked inside. It keeps them dry during the occasional downpour in their first week after leaving Carol's home behind, the sky weeping for a world that has ignited and burned down within just a few days. All their belongings are safely with them and so, after one more night of forcing themselves to keep their eyes open out of fear, they both allow themselves to get some rest.

 

It's cramped inside and the heat of the day has their skin sticking to the seats, the air in the metal cage humid and nearly impossible to breathe in. One night, too restless to fall asleep himself, Daryl catches a glimpse at Carol squirming in her seat by his side, eyebrows furrowed in discomfort even in her sleep. Quietly, he rolls his window down, allowing some slightly cooler air to tickle their sweat-slicked skin. She calms down after that, her breathing even in the quiet night.

 

He takes a deep, gulping inhale, staring at the dusty road ahead of them. Bathed in moonlight, it might be just any road on any given day. But it's not.

 

It's all an illusion now.

 

* * *

 

She does not know what she expected to find. But it was the last string of hope she clung to, a lifeline that waved through her body. Pushing her legs forward, sucking air into her lungs.

 

They had no trail to follow, not even breadcrumbs leading their way. Her little girl is lost in this big, open, violent world – and now the flame of her last hope has been blown out.

 

 

 

_Y'ain't gotta do it_ , Daryl insists, curling his calloused hand around her arm. Trembling fingers are curled around the doorknob, the other gripping her knife in such a tight grasp that the bones of her knuckles are pushing up against the cracked skin.

 

_I do._ Her voice breaks and flutters around the words, tears prickling her eyes. On the other side of the door, nails scratch against pale yellow wood, and the snarls that occupy the otherwise silent room fill Carol with dread. _She's my sister._ A pause, Daryl's hand slipping from her arm. _It should be... It should be me._

 

He sighs audibly, taking a step back. _I'd do it for ya._

 

A bitter smile curls her lips, grotesque and lifeless. She does not thank him for his kindness. Instead, she turns the door knob, her body rigid.

 

 

 

The knife clatters to the ground after she pushes it into her sister's left eye – just as blue as her own. Limply, the dead body falls to the carpeted floor, a pool of blood forming like a spiked crown around her head.

 

_Could you help me carry her downstairs?_

 

 

 

It took them four days to drive to her sister's house, and Carol has not been here in years. The neighborhood looks vaguely familiar, but between the few old family homes, a row of brand new starter homes has been built. She remembers her sister going on about the building noise maybe a year ago. It seems so silly now as she sits on the front steps, watching the sun set in a blood red sky.

 

There is no sign Sophia was ever here, and she wants to scold herself for being such a fool. The cigarette she lights burns in the growing darkness, and she takes a deep inhale, breathing in the fumes again for the first time in decades.

 

She should put flowers on her sister's grave (a grave that Daryl dug in the scorching afternoon sun). Snow bells had been her favorite, and Carol laughs bitterly and quietly into the birthing night. Where will she get those? Behind her, the door is pushed open with a pathetic creak.

 

_We gotta go,_ Daryl says timidly, and for the first time since he pulled that little boy off her and buried a knife in his skull, since they watched a city burn, she thinks he sounds afraid.

 

A question lingers in the statically charged distance between them. A question she has asked him once before. Where are they going to go?

 

* * *

 

It is a quiet company they keep.

 

The times for small talk have ended (and Carol has a feeling that Daryl was never really the type for it, even before).

 

They don't fill the silence of their days with assumptions about what happened, about what caused all this. They don't ask themselves why one day everyone was just paranoid about the flu as usual. Why a few days later, everybody was worrying a little too much. Why suddenly the schools closed and missing people reports piled up on the news. Why reporters seemed on edge, going on and on about an outbreak nobody could find a name for. They don't recount the horrors of blurry news footage that had chilled her to the core. Nor do they attempt to explain how a world so advanced could have fallen into pieces and gone down in flames within only a few days.

 

There is no profound philosophical discussion about what the end of the world holds for those sorry few who remain.

 

 

 

Instead, they drive down empty roads in silence. It allows for Carol's thoughts to roam, and for the quietness in her mind to ring like a mad man's nightmares. Her tears have long dried and numbness has taken over the fear that drove her out of Atlanta. It has silenced the grief that made her pliable to Daryl's will when he asked her to come with him – that whispered in her ear that perhaps he was right and she should take her chances with him.

 

As she looks at him from her peripheral vision – his own gaze fixed on the road, dirty fingers curled around the wheel, neck stiff and shoulders tense – she struggles to see any chance, any hope, any future. Nothing waits for them at the end of this road, and yet they keep driving, day after day.

 

His words haunt her. _Got nothin' better ta do._

 

* * *

 

He thinks about Merle more often these days than he did after they first escaped the city. But ever since he stood by as Carol buried a knife in her sister's skull, he can not push the thoughts of his brother out of his mind. During his life, he has seen his fair share of blood and violence, none if it facing him much any more. In too many ways he has grown numb to the visceral sound of tearing flesh, the copper scent of blood, the pale black and blue hues of death.

 

Still, something about the sight of Carol towering over that dead woman's corpse, a blank expression on her face, unsettles him. He can't even really look her in the eyes these days, afraid of what he will be confronted with in the pools of blue.

 

Since he doesn't have a clue what the hell to say to her anyway, he keeps his mouth shut most of the time. He's alive. She's here. They are no longer looking for her little girl – there is nowhere to look, nowhere to go.

 

Yet, they are still together. He offered to take her to her little girl and now he can't fulfill that promise. What now? He's pretty sure she doesn't even know his last name, can't remember ever telling her. They are complete and utter strangers with nothing in common, and yet they fall asleep next to each other night after night and he starts teaching her how to use a knife properly. Even risks showing her how to shoot one of the guns he took off a pair of dead cops last week.

 

Leaving her behind would be leaving her to die. He shouldn't care what the fuck happens to her, he tells himself. But always he remembers the little boy he pulled off her in the street in Atlanta. The moment he chose saving this stranger over a chance of finding Merle.

 

 

 

To silence the turmoil that runs havoc in his brain, he wonders about Merle. Where he might be. What he might be up to. If he'd be angry at him for leaving him behind.

 

 

 

_merle looks younger, like a picture taken decades ago when his cheeks were hollow, eyes bloodshot, teeth yellow, not an ounce of fat on his bony limbs. he reaches out for him. reaches and reaches but even though merle is staggering towards him he seems to put more distance between them._

 

_it smells of something he faintly recognizes, something nasty that has drained his only brother over the years, that is cooking somewhere where flames lick the walls._

 

_this is wrong, daryl keeps thinking, catching sight of himself in the milky shards of a mirror on the ground. why is he walking barefoot on ashes?_

 

_in the distance, a sweet voice is singing, its echo flowing in the wind. a lullaby. he remembers it, his momma humming the tune as she held him to her chest. merle snarls, breaking the melody. this is wrong._

 

_'left me to die, little brother.' no. daryl shakes his head vigorously. no._

 

_'came lookin' for ya.'_

 

_a cold hand wraps around his throat, and he scream silently. blood pearls on his lips, not his own. merle's eyes black and dead. teeth sinking into his skin. a sharp pain. a woman's voice. 'my sweet little boy.'_

 

He wakes with a start, gulping down thick and humid air. Sweat trickling down his temple, his shirt clinging to his back.

 

Next to him, Carol stirs awake, sitting up with tired, swollen eyes. _Is everything all right?_ she asks with a voice rendering hoarse by sleep. Why is she always asking him that? He nods, swallowing deftly. He can still feel his brother's hands around his throat. _Are you sure?_

 

A warm, soft hand curls around his arm, and he pulls away so fast that he nearly swats her hand back into her own face. Her eyes widen in the sparse light, and she seems to cower.

 

_'m sorry_ , he mutters.

 

As he climbs into the front seat and grabs the crossbow, he wonders what the hell he even apologized for.

 

* * *

 

The world feels like a dream to her. A nightmarish still frame taken from a grainy black-and-white movie that played late at night at an old, dusty and nearly empty theater. A page ripped from a forgotten novel that lines up letters in such a way that shivers run down your spine and prickle your skin like needles. A blurry photograph of an artistic masterpiece, seemingly random brush strokes painting a bleak picture of nothingness, of all that remains when everything has gone.

 

It are not the comforts of her old life she misses (the scented soaps, the warm blends of exotic spices, the decadent plushness of fresh laundry, the dampness of steam fogging up mirrors). As the days pass, she misses all she never thought she'd miss. It is a quiet world now, and the absence of thundering planes in the spotless sky, of cars rushing by hurriedly, of children laughing and yelling in the streets, of radio tunes sifting through windows left open to allow the summer air to drift in with its rich scents – the absence of all that makes the deafening silence even harder to endure.

 

 

 

Carol sighs, looking down at her dirty clothes. Sweaty palms run over the coarse fabric of her pants, dirt crusting beneath her fingernails. Daryl breathes heavily as he fills more gas into their truck, and her eyes inevitably travel towards him.

 

She has lost track of time, but she knows it's been roughly three weeks since she buried her sister, since they started driving with no direction in mind. Three weeks, and they have not seen another living soul. As she takes in the sight of him – tanned arms covered in a glistening sheen of sweat, blood painting his knuckles red, a sour expression etched onto his face that has become familiar – she wonders briefly if perhaps they are the only people left on Earth.

 

It is a thought that should chill her to the core. If there is nobody else left, then she'd be admitting to what she already knows deep inside. That her little girl is gone.

 

Instead, it leaves her numb, and she looks away when Daryl feels her staring at him. He is a riddle she can't solve. How many nights has she spent laying awake on the mattress they squeezed into the back of the truck, staring at the blankets covering the back windows, wondering why he is still here? Each morning when she wakes in the too cramped space, a part of her always somehow nudging into his stiff body, she is hit by a wave of surprise that he is still there. Mostly silent, looking miserable. Looking lost.

 

She can't explain to herself why he is still here. Why he is protecting her (brutally, and the blood and guts is a sight she's convinced she'll never get used to). Why he is teaching her to protect herself (grimly and with little patience, but she supposes that patience is a luxury now they can no longer afford). And yet, why he is looking at her like she single-handedly tore the world from the earth by its roots.

 

There is a shadow of blame to his gaze when he looks – _if_ he looks – at her. It burns enough to make her fear she'll wake up one day to find him gone. To wake up in this world all alone. It's a terrifying thought to face this horror all by herself (even scarier than spending every waking hour with a stranger, to trust him with her life and depend on him more than she's willing to admit). But a small part of her, the part that sheds dry tears and clings to her little girl's photograph like a memento of different times, almost wants to beg him to leave.

 

Because she knows what will happen to her if he does.

 

* * *

 

She hardly mentions the little girl they initially set out to find. No reminiscing words or sentimental tales that would only make him squirm anyway. Even with the misery of his own life he hasn't got a damn clue what it's like to lose a child.

 

Whatever memories Carol holds dear, she keeps them locked inside her, barricading herself from him. But he does not miss the photograph she keeps tucked in her back pocket, now so often folded and unfolded and drenched in tears and muck that it looks decades old.

 

Some nights when Carol thinks he is asleep, he can feel the quiver of the mattress where she tries to hold in dry sobs. And in her sleep she whimpers more often than not, sorry little sounds that remind him of dying birds. Whimpers fill his nights that sound like her little girl’s name, and those nights fill their days with a sadness that weighs too much and is thick enough to cut through with their blood crusted knives.

 

He doesn't get why he cares so much about a kid he never met, why the idea and near certainty that she's dead has his blood freezing in his veins.

 

If he wasn't such an idiot, he'd leave her behind. Instead, she lulls him into her cloud of misery like a siren calls a sailor into his doom. Some nights he lies awake and listens to her tearless song, wondering what cliffs he will crash into before he drowns in the sea, what tempest will tear him down.

 

He finds no answers in the dark corners of his mind.

 

* * *

 

She never would have looked at him twice. Probably would have grabbed her daughter by the hand and crossed the street when he walked past. Carol is everything he never was and never wanted in his life. A prim and proper housewife with her plain buttoned blouses and her short, gray hair.

 

It's easy to picture her life before all this. Doting on her little girl the way his mom never did (not even when she wasn't piss drunk and slurring lifeless sweet nothings in his young ears). The smell of flour and cleaning solution mingling with some flowery perfume. Blouses neatly ironed, dinner on the table, always a smile and a wave for her neighbors in their picture perfect picket-fenced houses.

 

But there is something else to her, something Daryl can't quite put his finger on. It nags him, he realizes as he watches her stir whatever it is she is cooking up over the fire. Blood is crusting under her nails from skinning the squirrels he shot – she is getting better at that at a daily rate, working almost as quickly and efficiently as he is, and with a grate deal more grace.

 

She is not made for the world the way it is now. Should not be for all intents and purposes be fitting into the dirt and grime and sweat, all drenched in blood. But strangely enough, despite the quivering fear in her blue eyes and the hesitation to her movements when she buries her knife in a stranger's skull, she seems to fall into place.

 

He is missing something, Daryl realizes. Biting his thumbnail, he toes at the dry undergrowth with the toe of his boot, sighing a little too loudly in exasperation.

 

_Is everything all right?_

 

A harsh scoff is his only response. It's a stupid question, after all.

 

* * *

 

If he'd gotten to her just a minute later... Daryl can't even bare to think about that. He didn't think much at all, his brain completely shutting down to nothing but staying alive when he ran back to her through thick undergrowth. Twigs cracking like brittle bones beneath his boots, knowing the sound would give them away, but he needed to at least warn her.

 

He did not think when he found her, blue eyes wide as she took in the shock on his suddenly pale face. Nor did he hesitate for one moment before he buried his knife in the belly of the dead walker by her feet, dragging it up from abdomen up to his sternum. Carol's gasp barely registered in his ears before he was stuffing his hands inside the warm cavern of a dead man's stomach.

 

She struggled against him when he smeared torn guts and too warm, too thick blood all over her shirt. _Herd's coming_ , he heard himself gasp as his palms cupped her cheeks, leaving bloody hand-prints behind. She tensed against him instantly, fear shooting like lightening through her eyes.

 

No, he did not think, acted on nothing but instinct when he pulled her into the hollowed out trunk of a nearby tree. In the near distance, dozens of feet were dragging over dried leafs and dead branches.

 

 

 

He can't about what might have happened if he hadn't spotted the herd heading her way. No, not when at least three dozen walkers are surrounding them, moving at a slow pace through the woods. Carol is trembling against him, her entire body shivering like leafs in the autumn winds.

 

His mind comes up empty when he wonders when he was last this close to another living person, all of Carol's front pressed up against him in the tight space. Any other day, he would have bolted, snapped at her for invading his space. But none of that even crosses his mind now, not when the stench of blood is biting in the air and the warmth of it drenching both their clothes. He can taste death on the tip of his tongue, an ashen flavor that he feels is almost familiar. It is stitched onto old memories of sharp pain, and he's suddenly all too aware of the numbness that spreads in uneven lines across his back.

 

Snap. His heart skips a beat when a walker slowly passes them, not three feet away from where they're hiding. Carol sucks in a sharp inhale, and he grabs her wrists by instinct, pulls her closer against him. She's got every right to be afraid, he thinks, but he won't let her risk both their lives.

 

In the lack of space her head falls into place in the crook of his neck, her bloody forehead pressing into his shoulder. He can feel the warmth of her breath seeping through the fabric of his shirt, feels her pulse throbbing under the pads of his thumbs. She's a wreck against him, but she keeps quiet now as the walker moves past without noticing them.

 

_'s gonna be fine_ , Daryl whispers in her ear, a hoarse promise that is barely audible. It's a foolish promise, one he can't possible keep should even just one of these bastards notice them. But he makes it anyway, and when she shakes off his right hand only to entwine her fingers with his, Daryl finally feels something shooting through him that he's been missing for the last few minutes. For the entire last goddamn month.

 

He's suddenly afraid.

 

 

 

_Go first_ , he urges her, nodding towards the small creek. Adrenaline is still pumping through his veins, red and hot and making him restless. Carol, however, seems to have frozen. She stopped trembling, but the catatonic emptiness on her pale face worries him.

 

She shakes her head, indicating that she at least heard what he said. _It's okay, you go_ , she mutters, her effort to keep her voice steady evident in the stiffness of her words.

 

With a sigh, Daryl climbs down the steep hill that leads to the creek. Tugging the red cloth from his back pocket, he dips it into the cool current, allowing the water to soak into the fabric. Ignoring the itch of drying blood all over his own skin and the uncomfortable stickiness of his shirt where the crimson has soaked through, he climbs back up, fingernails digging into dry earth.

 

_Sorry I got it all over ya face_ , he mutters quietly, offering Carol the wet cloth. She doesn't move to take it, staring right through him, and he wonders where her mind has taken her. Slowly, he reaches out, wiping the cloth over her cheek. Briefly, she tenses, eyes meeting his. Apprehension is written all over her face and he is surprised to see fear flaring in her eyes again. But then her features soften, and she reaches up. Delicate fingers find his own, taking the cloth from his hand.

 

_Thank you_ , she whispers. The weak smile that tugs at the corners of her mouth must be a product of his imagination.

 

* * *

 

The knife at her throat is icy cold, a strange contrast to the sweat that pearls in shiny teardrops in the hollows of her collarbone. Each shuddering breath, each dry swallow presses the blade further into her skin. Rapidly, her pulse drums, her heart racing in her chest as if to reach a lifetime's worth of beats in the few minutes that might remain for her.

 

_Come on, man. It's a good deal._ The man in the red shirt keeps his gun aimed at Daryl’s head, his earlier wicked amusement slowly replaced by annoyance. _We get the chick, you get supplies. No shit. Simple._

 

Daryl's nostrils flare and he looks up from where he is kneeling on the muddy road with eyes squinted in pure rage. _Piss off._

 

The man pressed up behind her - who'd introduced himself as Kurt - reeks of alcohol, urine and old sweat. Her eyes water at the burning scent, his arm around her stomach cutting off her circulation, grazing the underside of her breasts and violating her diaphragm. He laughs at Daryl's words, a nasty sound that reminds her of Ed.

 

Everything about him reminds her of the husband she silently prays met his grizzly end by now (all the while willing to spend the rest of her life by his side if it meant holding her little girl safely in her arms again). His big, bulging belly is pressing into her back, sweat causing her worn shirt to stick to the ridges of her spine. He holds her the same way Ed always did, roughly and without care. His breath fans over the side of her neck, disgustingly sour.

 

_All we want is some pussy, man. Haven't had any in weeks._ She holds still in his arms, cautious of the blade grazing her throat, but her insides are squirming. Nausea bubbles up inside of her sourly.

 

_We ain't makin' any deals,_ Daryl presses through gritted teeth. His crossbow is out of reach, uselessly laying in a puddle. There is a knife at his side, but he is ever aware of the gun aimed at his head.

 

_She your wife or what?_ Carol watches the way Daryl's face changes ever so slightly, a small tilt that goes unnoticed to the two men holding them captive. But she has seen nothing but him for well over a month now, and is beginning to understand the way he works.

 

His next words, however, take her by surprise. _Yeah, she is. Now get'ya filthy hands off her._ It is a growl that sends shivers down her spine, her nails digging into Kurt's bared forearm, coarse hair resilient beneath the pads of her fingers.

 

 

 

The men had surprised them earlier. For weeks, she'd hoped and prayed to find other people, other survivors. Even if they held no clue to what happened to her little girl, she lived with the illusion that running into other people, people who where still alive, would give her hope.

 

When the knife at her throat breaks through layers of sunburned and freckled skin and a gunshot tears through the late afternoon, all her hope evaporates. Her vision blurs, a vague pain throbbing in her neck when her limp body hits the wet ground. Far away, she hears her name. A groan. Another gunshot. But the world has already faded into blackness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been a while since I wrote this little story. I was never certain if I'd continue it into a multi chapter fic. It wasn't for a lack of ideas on how to continue it, but I just never really had the chance. It was never the right time. But this second chapter essentially wrote itself this week and I took that as a sign.
> 
> I can't promise that updates will be super regular, but I am very excited about this fic, so who knows? 
> 
> Please note that I changed the rating from T to E.


	3. blue thread.

She is stirring beside him – _finally_ , thank God – and he shifts on the worn mattress, maneuvering himself onto his knees. His left side is still pounding, each throb of his pulse sending a fresh wave of pain through his entire body, but he grinds his teeth and wills it away.

 

Carol inhales sharply, forehead furrowed as her eyes slowly drift open. It's late, and the dim light of the dying sun basks the inside of the car in an orange glow, a mercy on her eyes. Pain transforms her face into a grotesque mask, and his hand jolts out to rest on her shoulder by an instinct that takes him by surprise.

 

_Take it easy,_ he mutters, applying pressure to keep her down. The last thing he needs is for her to fidget too much. _Gotta be careful or the stitches will tear._ He eyes the bandage on her throat with the same old anxiety as he has for the past day. Three times he's changed it already (too generous with it, but the hell with that), stitched the cut up with a blunt needle hastily dipped in disinfectant and a pale blue thread she'd used to sew on a button on her shirt just a few days ago.

 

So much blood. There'd been so much blood. Pouring through the cracks between his trembling fingers where he pressed his palm against the wound, soaking her shirt and the muddy ground where she fell – he'd been sure she was fading in his arms, bleeding out and dying. And right there, thinking he'd be all alone soon, he'd found himself begging. Don't let her die, not now. Not like this.

 

_Daryl?_ Her voice is like a shiver, running down his spine in cold chills. It's barely above a whisper, weak.

 

_'s okay._ Suddenly, the hand on her shoulder is awkward and he pulls it away. _Ya gonna be fine._

 

_It hurts,_ she whines, squeezing her eyes shut. He reaches for the small bag by his feet, rummaging through it until he find the orange pill box he's been looking for. _I'm tired._

 

_Ya lost a lot of blood,_ he explains, popping open the bottle and tossing two painkillers onto the palm of his hand. _Here, take these._ Carefully, he cradles the back of her head, blood still crusting in the cropped silver hair. She swallows the pills and takes a gulp of the stale, warm water he offers with a hiss, barely able to balance the weight of her head.

 

With a sigh, she sinks back onto the pillow he stuffed under her head, eyes searching for a moment before focusing on him – she looks so disoriented, her gaze hazy. _Are you okay?_ A long pause, her breathing labored. _I heard.... Gun..._ Her eyes drift shut again, but he notices the way her fingers fidget nervously by her side.

 

_'m fine._ The memory of the bullet tearing through his side is sharp and vivid, and he feels a new wave of pain throbbing where he's patched himself up messily. _They're gone._

 

For a moment, he is convinced she fell asleep, but then her eyes open slowly, the question lingering there even before she utters it. _Gone?_

 

He nods.

 

_Did you kill them?_ Something flashes in her eyes then, and it only takes a second for Daryl to recognize it as fear. She's afraid of him. The realization burns in his veins, a touch of anger beginning to boil that he suppresses.

 

It's him who killed that kid before it could eat her alive. It's him who got her out of Atlanta alive. Who _kept_ her alive all these weeks. Who shot that bastard in the red shirt after he'd taken a bullet to save her. Who slit the other guy's throat with the same knife that that bastard had used her.

 

He saved her life and now she's looking at him the same way everybody’s always looked at him all his life. Then again: how can she not be scared after everything that has happened?

 

_Ya gotta eat,_ he sighs, turning away from her eyes with a heavy feeling in his chest.

 

* * *

 

She's still mad at him for not telling her about the gunshot he took to save her life. That he spent three days treating her wound and taking care of her as her spent body recovered without thinking about himself. Stealing away only for a few short moments to clean the wound and change his bandages until finally, she'd regained enough energy to notice the way he held himself differently, how his face twisted in pain whenever he lifted something or shifted to his side.

 

But she has scolded him enough for that, and he has refused her help so many times that she has stopped offering it. Her own wound is healing well, and she runs her fingers over the ragged edge as she inspects it in the rear-view mirror. It will leave a nasty scar, that's for sure. But what is one more scar?

 

 

 

Something has changed since that day. Daryl talks more. They still don't have intricate conversations and he rarely reveals anything about himself. But he comments on this and that, explains to her how to make a better fire, tries to actually instruct her in how to defend herself better as opposed to what he did before (barking out orders and expecting her to simply understand).

 

A part of her suspects that he is trying to prove something to her, that his sudden shift is deliberate and not simply a natural change that happened over time. The way he looks at her sometimes (and she always pretends she does not notice for his sake) speaks of insecurity. Almost as if he's waiting for some sort of validation that she can not give.

 

Still, neither of them mentions the two men that attacked them. The scars they will both take away from the encounter speak for themselves (they are not the only people in the world. but what kind of people are still out there now?)

 

Even in herself, Carol begins to feel changes. Something has melted in her, a dark blue melancholy that has veiled her for weeks beginning to fade. She starts to talk about Sophia again, tells Daryl small anecdotes. Nothing grand, only little bits and pieces that come to mind. Some days, he smiles at something she tells him and for that brief, decadent moment, it's almost as if her little girl was still alive. Still mattered. Still made a difference when the mere memory of her could conjure a smile onto Daryl's usually grim face.

 

It lights him up, Carol notices. Makes him look younger.

 

Her little girl is gone. The world she knew is gone.

 

(then again, except for sophia, what has she really lost?)

 

It's time to accept that.

 

* * *

 

He ain't a damn fool. She hasn't mentioned her husband since they headed out of Atlanta with a bloody windshield framing the road and a flicker of a promise in the air that her little girl might be waiting for her at the end of that road.

 

Since then, she's not talked about him at all. It's like the man never existed. Daryl's not naive enough to pretend he knows shit about happy marriages. But he's got enough common sense and too many memories of his ma and his old man to let him know her marriage _wasn't_ a happy one.

 

If this world offered her one chance, it was the opportunity to pretend her husband never existed. And she's making the most of this chance, he can tell. It's almost frightening to see her change, nearly at an hourly rate. The meek shell she hid behind when they first met is beginning to crumble. He's always been surprised by how well she seemed to fit into this new world, but the apparent ease (only a pretense, he can tell) with which she tries to make it all work leaves him feeling stunned.

 

She's bolder, too. Much bolder than she was at first.

 

 

 

_Tell me about your brother,_ she asks one night when they sit on a mossy log, a fire crackling by their feet. He'd been watching the woods around them, bathed in darkness and only occasionally interrupted by a small fizzle of embers shooting through the air.

 

She's looking at him with wide blue eyes (the flames dancing in them) and a tender smile on her lips. There's dirt on her cheek, he notes, confused by the itch in his finger to wipe it away. He swats the thought away like a fly, toeing the stones keeping the fire at bay with his boot.

 

_Ain't much to tell,_ he mutters. It's a half lie. There's not much to tell about Merle he wants Carol to know. _Tough son of a bitch._

 

_Easy to believe,_ Carol says with a smile he can actually hear in her words, and for some reason that makes him sad. Suddenly, he remembers how much he misses Merle.

 

_Was a couple years older than me,_ he starts, not sure why he is even considering telling her any of this. But she's quiet and listening, and perhaps if he shares these memories they won't all eventually fade. _Spent lots of time in juvy when I was young. Mostly drugs. Was a damn prick. Could be a real asshole._ He exhales heavily. _But it's always been me an' Merle._

 

Until he saved her.

 

Tears prickle in his eyes like tiny needles and he silently curses Carol for bringing this up. But she meant well, he supposes, and he can't blame her for wanting to know a little more about him. He could have been a serial killer, after all.

 

_I'm sorry you couldn't find him,_ Carol whispers after a while. A single tear spills from his eye and he keeps his head pointed at the dry ground to hide the treacherous trail it leaves on his dust-covered cheek.

 

He's got a feeling that she knows because she keeps quiet after that. The woods crack and moan around them, all the usual sounds that never stirred him before the dead started walking. Now, every sound is a potential danger.

 

_What about ya husband?_ He knows he's a dick for bringing it up, considering how sure he is that she's trying her damn hardest to forget him. But there's always a chance she's thinking he simply doesn't care. And he doesn't, not really. Other people's marriages ain't never been any of his fucking problem. But for some reason it bothers him that she might think he doesn't give a damn.

 

She tenses a little, and when he turns to look at her, her eyes are fixed on the fire. For a while, she stays silent and he's starting to think she'll pretend he never asked. He'd be fine with that.

 

_His name was Ed,_ she whispers with a spite to her voice that he did not think possible coming from her. But still there is a fearfulness to her quiet voice. Like maybe she's afraid she'll summon him if she speaks his name too loud. _I hope he's dead._

 

It's all the conformation he needs.

 

He nods, noticing the tight-lipped and humorless smile she gives him in response.

 

_Chances are pretty good he is._

 

They both know what that also means. There ain't no way her little girl's still alive.

 

It seems like too high a prize to pay.

 

* * *

 

The little girl in the photograph smiles brightly, her red hair braided along the side of her head, cherry-blossom earrings sparkling in the flash of the camera, her pale blue dress ruffled. Exposure has begun to weather the image, fading its colors and soaking the glossy paper. Carol wonders what the girl's name had been – the ink long smeared beyond recognition on the piece of paper attached to the picture. She's just one of many faces now, hundreds of them pinned to the cork board. _HAVE YOU SEEN ME? MISSING! HELP US._

 

Sighing, Carol trails her finger along the edges of the photograph, memorizing the little girl's face. Steps alert her then, but the sound of them has become familiar by now and she isn't startled enough to pull her knife from her belt.

 

Daryl looks solemn as he approaches her, the empty bag he'd taken with him to scavenge the small, abandoned camp sight seemingly only half full. But something else sparks her interest. There's a blush on his cheeks and he keeps gazing down at a beer bottle in his hand, a delicate white flower blooming out of it.

 

_Didn't find much,_ he explains when he's only a few feet away from her and stops. She waits for him to say something else, but when the silence stretches on, she decides to break it.

 

_A flower?_ she asks, nodding down at the makeshift vase.

 

_It's a Cherokee rose,_ Daryl points out, clutching the bottle with a white-knuckled grasp. His voice, however, is softer than she ever remembers hearing it. _When American soldiers were moving Indians off their land on the Trail of Tears the Cherokee mothers were grieving and crying so much 'cause they were losing their little ones along the way,_ he trails off, avoiding her gaze. Eyes fixed on the dusty asphalt, he swallows. _Exposure, disease... starvation. A lot of them just... disappeared._

 

Carol feels her breath stuttering, and the folded picture of her daughter in her back pocket suddenly seems to weigh too much. _So the elders, they said a prayer; asked for a sign to uplift the mothers' spirits._ Daryl looks up at her then, shyness glaring like a neon sign on his softened features. _Give them strength and hope._

 

Tears burn in her eyes, her lips curling into a sad and weak smile.

 

_The next day this rose started to grow right where the mothers' tears fell._ With a heavy heart, Carol looks down at the white petals and the golden heart, reaching out to trail a calloused fingertip over the smooth softness. _I'm not fool enough to think there's any flowers blooming for my brother._ His words take her by surprise, sadness mingling with a hint of bitterness. It's like he doesn't want to believe that there was good in his brother. The thought nearly has her interrupting him, but when he mutters his next words, her heart soars. _But I believe this one bloomed for your little girl._

 

 

 

They leave the nameless faces behind, and Carol casts one last glance at them in the side mirror, her fingers curled around the bottle in her lap. A sweet scent fills the air, and the saltiness of her tears coats her lips for a good long while.

 

* * *

 

He doesn't stare. Looks straight away when he notices his mistake. If it even _was_ a mistake. He's pretty damn sure she said she'd wash up further down the river.

 

But there she stands knee deep in the water in nothing but her underwear, and all he sees before his heart skips a beat and he turns around and disappears in the woods is much more bare skin than he's seen in a long time.

 

He's stumbling too loudly through the woods now, trying to get away. Privacy isn't much of an option anymore, but she deserves to at least wash the grime and blood off herself without someone else hovering around. And he ain't no creepy pervert staring at woman while they wash.

 

Out of breath, he eventually stops, leaning against a tree. The wound in his side throbs in complaint, but he wills the pain away as he always does. The river to his left is lapping at wet stones and sand, creating an almost peaceful melody.

 

He tries to just pretend he never saw a thing, he really does. But his brain has other ideas, replaying the splint second over and over until all the details he initially ignored come back in all their vivid glory.

 

Her long legs, much slimmer than those cargo pants made him believe. Pale skin stretched across taut muscles.

 

Her ass, the blue underwear she wore soaked from the current, hiding absolutely nothing.

 

Her hips and the dip of her waist. The ridges of her spine under nearly translucent skin. Her back one wide plane of milky skin.

 

The elegant slope of her neck. Her silver hair sparkling in the sun.

 

_Shit,_ he mutters under his breath, feeling himself harden in his pants. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tries to think of anything else other than Carol’s skin. Anything. But all his mind comes up with is how fucking soft it had looked and how long it's been since he's been inside a woman. Trying to remember the last time, he comes up empty.

 

With a groan, he drops the crossbow to the ground, forehead pressing into the rough bark of the tree. His fingers makes quick work of his belt buckle, and he shoves his dirty hand into his pants without ceremony, curling around his rock hard dick.

 

It ain't Carol, he tells himself as he squeezes the base, stars shining behind his closed eyes. It's just that he's had no fucking chance to jerk off in weeks and she's the only person left. His imagination can only do so much and it's nothing compared to the real deal.

 

He tries not to think about her when he begins to stroke himself with a brutal, almost punishing rhythm. Tries to push all thoughts of her slim legs around his hips out of his mind. Almost succeeds at not imagining her clever hands curled around him instead of his own. Or her lips sucking him dry. He grunts, that imagine nearly sending him over the edge.

 

Thrusting his hips into his own hand, it becomes harder and harder to replace Carol's face in his head with that of some random big breasted chick he once fucked against the side of his truck. But when he comes with a silent groan, shooting all over his hand and the mossy ground, it's her face he imagines beneath him, cheeks flushed and his name on her parted, damp lips.

 

It takes a few minutes for his breathing to return to normal. He is ashamed when he stuffs his limp cock back into his pants, feels like he betrayed her in some way.

 

Wasn't my damn fault I saw her, he drills into his brain, climbing down to the river. Holding his hands into the cold current, he washes away the evidence of what he did.

 

 

 

He doesn't talk to her for the rest of the day, avoids making eye contact. She knows, he is sure of it, can almost hear her scolding words and see the disappointment in her eyes. It must be written all over his face what a desperate pervert he is.

 

 

 

That night, he lies away with his back to her.

 

She ain't even that good looking, he tells himself. Her tits are too small anyway, and what's up with her hair? He never looked at her like that before, and he won't do it again.

 

All he needed was to blow off some steam, that’s all. Can't be picky these days.

 

 

 

(in his dream, silver sunlight sparks on fields of golden barley. pale roses bloom in heaps. he's never seen anything as soft and gentle.)

 

* * *

 

Rain is drumming fervently onto the roof of the truck, filling the night with a rash and hurried song. Sleep will not come, and Carol finds herself staring blindly into the darkness. Her mind spins around a question that has gone unmentioned for too long. Usually, she is too preoccupied with surviving to allow herself time for her thoughts to drift like this. (any other waking moment, she spends wondering how long their food will last them, when they need to stop and find water to refill their canteens, how long is long enough when boiling muddy water, what clothes to take from an already scavenged store, if they do or do not need to find another pharmacy, if the sound she just heard was the moaning of the wind or a walker)

 

_Daryl?_ she speaks quietly, the rain too loud for her to listen to Daryl's breathing next to her and figure out whether or not he is asleep. He never sleeps much, she has noticed. Not more than three hours every night, something that has her worrying about him every day. Usually when she wakes from a restless slumber with legs and arms cramped into the small space, he is wide awake.

 

So when he mutters incomprehensibly in response, she is not surprised. For a brief moment, she chews on the question, hesitant to ask. They have not talked about _that_ night since she woke the next day and only the still healing wound on her neck and the bandage around Daryl's stomach remind them of what happened. But something has been bugging her ever since, and she can't shake it. _Why did you tell that man I was your wife?_

 

He's silent, but she can feel him tensing next to her. _Thought ya didn't remember that._ His words are just above a whisper, slightly higher pitched than usual, and the vulnerability that drips from them has her turning her head to the side.

 

In the faint silver light of the moon she can hardly make out his profile. She can, however, see the light reflecting in his open eyes. _I do,_ she admits softly.

 

Her chest feels heavy as she waits for a response. It's a loaded question, and she’s afraid he doesn't quite understand what she is asking. Not why he replied the way he did, but rather why he even bothered protecting her in the first place. Why he did not take that chance to get rid of her (she is a burden and she knows it, slowing him down, a dead weight shackled to his feet). Why he did not take the deal the men offered. Why he is still here.

 

 

He gives her an awkward sort of shrug, his always bare upper arm brushing up against hers (his skin is scorching, and she'd be worried his wound got infected and he might be running a fever if she had not spent so many nights sleeping right next to him - knowing he always feels like this). _Just figured if he bothered askin' then maybe it'd actually make a difference._

 

It's obvious he's putting a lot of effort into giving a nonchalant answer, and it serves as a clue for her that he understood the deeper meaning of her question. She couldn’t ask him all that. It'd be like backing a skittish animal into a corner with no means of escape. She'd only hurt herself instead of getting an answer.

 

_It didn't,_ she sighs, reaching up to run a fingertip over the corded skin pushing at the thin bandage at her neck.

 

_Nah,_ Daryl mutters, turning onto his side, away from her. _Didn't matter shit._

 

Carol wonders what the answer to her question really would be, and it keeps her up almost all night. When the midnight blue of the sky lightens and the thunder of the rain turns into a gentle patter, she resorts to listen to Daryl's even breathing.

 

It doesn't really matter why he is still here. He _is_. They are.

 

And she realizes then that she is no longer afraid she'll wake to find him gone.

 

* * *

 

_We gotta stop this._ Carol looks up from the brand new blue shoe lace she's been trying to fiddle into the loops of her boot, a little taken aback by Daryl’s sudden words. He's leaning against the side of the truck, worrying his thumbnail with his teeth. It's a nervous gesture, but his voice speaks of determination. _Driftin' around. Gotta go somewhere, find a place._

 

It sounds almost like he is talking to himself, the pile of bolts by his feet suddenly forgotten. Carol puts down her boot, rubbing her stiff fingers against the coarse fabric of her pants. _Where?_ she asks – the same old question she has asked herself since the day they left her old house behind.

 

_Don't know,_ Daryl shrugs, his eyes distant. _But we gotta._

 

She has no clue what brought this on. _It's all gone, Daryl,_ she says quietly.

 

He kicks at the dusty, dry road, crossing his arms in front of his chest. _I know, but maybe there's a place. Some place we can make safe._ Anger and hope combine in him dangerously, an explosive combination that has her pulse thrumming nervously. _Gotta stay away from the cities an' we can't drive too far._

 

Hoping takes courage these days, and she hardly ever believed she had any of that left. But a thought crosses her mind, a fleeting idea that is sweet and gentle and might as well kill them both. _Maybe...,_ she mutters, unable to keep quiet. She wants to bite her tongue as soon as the word slips past her lips.

 

Daryl kneels down next to her, and when she meets his gaze, he looks almost curious. _What?_

 

_Maybe we can try the coast?_ she suggests, faint memories of salty water and coarse sand almost as promising in this moment as memories of hot showers and a warm meal. _It might be safer there. With the water on one side, you know?_ She's grasping at straws to make sense of her idea, fearful now to seal their fate. It's a long journey, and they have no clue what awaits them at their destination. Then again, isn't it better to actually _have_ a destination?

 

_Maybe._ Daryl nods, lost in thought. _Ain't never been to the coast._

 

That startles her, and her eyes widen. _You've never seen the ocean?_ With a shrug of his shoulders, Daryl shakes his head. Under the pretense of indifference, she sees a flicker of sadness and regret.

 

_Then we have to go._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering: we are now moving into the season two timeline of the show. Up until now, this was covering the time Rick was in a coma and the season one timeline. 
> 
> I know there isn't a whole lot of surviving-the-apocalypse-kind-of-action going on in this story (hunting, supply runs, fighting walkers, etc.) and I apologize if that is something you feel is missing in this story. But I really want to focus on their relationship and how it develops in these different circumstances. That is why I decided not to go too much into detail about their day-to-day survival. I hope you can still enjoy this story ❤


	4. east.

_Maybe one of them smaller islands,_ Daryl wonders out loud, scratching absentmindedly at one of the many mosquito bites that swell red and angry down the length of his exposed arms. Vaguely, he points at the Georgia coast on the map they have spread out on the hood of the car.

 

Nervously, Carol fidgets with one of the stones keeping the sturdy paper in place, unable to keep herself from gazing over her shoulder every odd minute or so. Out in the open, every small sound is a threat, and she feels exposed here in the middle of the dusty road, trees lining them left and right. But no feet move through the undergrowth of the woods, and no sound of tires scraping against hot asphalt tears through the usual quietness of the world.

 

Snapping herself out of her fearful trance, Carol eyes endless stretch of blue on the map. In her head, wheels are spinning and spinning trying to come up with a solution and she's nearly given up when an old memory awakens from a seemingly endless slumber.

 

_I went on vacation with my parents once when I was little,_ she recalls, her mind drifting to a nostalgic haze of black and white memories. She can still see her mother's smile, smell the salt in the ocean breeze, hear her father's rumbling laughter, feel her sister's hand in her own. She had been just a little girl, too young to remember much so many years later, but what little she can recall now flickers through her head relentlessly. _I don't remember the name of the island, but it was... wait._ She leans in closer towards the map, smells the fresh sweat on Daryl’s skin when her arm brushes his. _Here,_ she says, pointing at a small, almost invisible spot of green in the midst of blue just off the coast of South Carolina.

 

She looks up at Daryl expectantly, waiting for him to say something, to say anything. This should be their decision and not just hers. They are in this together now, and they will make the strenuous journey together – for as long as they can. _It's not too far from the coast so we could move back and forth if we need supplies,_ she offers, faintly remembering the small fishing town that was nestled on the island, cobblestone streets that were always slick with salt water, old houses that told tales of adventures on the sea, men with white beards and deep voices bringing those stories to life. A few stores hidden here and there, just enough to keep the people who lived there fed and clothed. A special sort of people who lived far away from the rest of the world, secluded and keeping to themselves. It had seemed to her impressionable young mind like a handful of pages torn from a story book, a haunting place.

 

Daryl's expression shifts into unease and she watches his fingers drum slowly against the hood of the car. _Good chances there'll be other people there._ A heaviness follows his words that rests painfully on her heart. Meeting Daryl's gaze, Carol can see the same question in his eyes that plays like a broken record in her own mind. They still have no forgotten. Their wounds have only barely healed. And even if there are good people out there somewhere, left alone and scattered and hard to find, even if they found a place like that and were willing to stay... Carol sucks in a shuddering breath trying to picture what would happen to her and Daryl if they did.

 

_Yeah, there was a town,_ she presses through a throat that feels tied up. _I guess those people are still there._

 

She almost wishes she could take back her suggestion, wants to scold herself for even bringing it up in the first place. But her mind had acted too quickly and too hopefully before she'd had the time to really think it all through. Daryl looks just as weary as she feels, Carol notices with slight surprise. Before she can find an answer in his eyes, he nods briskly, grasping the black marker he'd dug out of the glove compartment earlier and draws a circle around the small dot that represents the island.

 

_Well, still worth checkin' out._

 

That seals it, and Carol barely pays attention when Daryl begins to trail the pad of his finger over different roads on the map, trying to make sense of the puzzle and find a safe route to their new destination. An odd mixture of excitement and fear fizzles in her veins.

 

What would happen to them? It has been just the two of them all this time – months by now – and slowly Carol is beginning to understand that it's the solitude that gives her an illusion of safety. One fear is predominant when she tries to focus on what Daryl says, her eyes following the roads he marks on the map. She's afraid of losing Daryl in a crowd of people. People who know neither him, nor her, nor them.

 

* * *

 

Carol yawns heartily to herself, craning her neck as her fingers loosen a little around the steering wheel. Frustration has seeped into the very marrow of their bones by now, and it starts to show physically. It's been well over a week since their decision to head for the coast. Given the necessity of avoided the highways and bigger roads, as well as cities and lager towns at all costs, their journey has been dragged out and laborious to say the least. One narrow back road after the other, dead ends stacking up one by one.

 

They had been nearing the border when they nearly drove head-on into a herd and had been forced to drive back into the opposite direction and circle back around. Another two days lost and wasted only for them to run into another herd, most likely the same.

 

Daryl had been furious, nearly bursting with anger. _Ain't gonna let them fuckers stop us,_ he'd hollered, and Carol could only barely hold him back before he bolted out of the car and into the mass of snarling, dead creatures.

 

Now, he is asleep in the passenger seat and the sign that welcomes them to South Carolina reflects in the rear view mirror. Glancing at him, Carol knows that he is not deep asleep. He never is, and she's surprised he isn't sleeping with one eye cracked open at all times. But it's comforting to see him like this. Eyes closed, the deeper lines smoothed from his face, fingers loose in his lap.

 

She smiles and looks up at the blue sky, imagining for one precious second that life is as simple as this.

 

 

 

_God, I loved this when I was a child,_ Carol proclaims and proudly holds up a can of ravioli. Her mother had never allowed them to eat these, but some days when her parents were working late and she and her sister would stay at old Mrs Keller's house next door after school, the kind and elderly lady would heat them up a few cans. Understanding fully well the beam on the two young girl's faces. Smiling fondly at those memories, Carol stuff the two remaining cans into her bag.

 

Daryl only snorts in reply, but she knows it's the closest to a laugh she can tickle out of him. _Ain't gonna fight ya over that shit,_ he says as he shakes a package of cornflakes and stuffs it into his own bag with a mildly displeased expression.

 

The small store they have come across is quiet and in pretty good shape despite being nearly completely emptied. Just off the main road in a small town, it has only one small display window, making it hard to keep an eye on the road, but also harder for walkers to spot them from outside. They'd been running out of food and made the decision to stop by the nearest town, always weary of the dangers that loomed behind every brick corner.

 

_We should check the back, see if they have any-_ Carol begins, but her words die on her tongue when the bell above the front door rings and the voices of at least two men drift over towards them. They are standing behind a shelf towards the back, shielded just enough not to be spotted for the moment.

 

She yelps when Daryl almost instantly grabs her hand and shoves her towards the back, a half wall separated the back from the front of the store. They move as quickly and yet as quietly as possible, her heart beating unhealthily fast.

 

_Daryl-_ she gasps quietly out of fear, her feet nearly tripping as he drags her along.

 

_Quiet,_ he hisses, and then comes to a halt behind a corner. Her back is up against a door that has a small sign on it, indicating it was once used as an office. Panting, she reaches for her knife, curling her fingers around where it's secured at her belt.

 

_Danny, grab some of them paper towels, will ya?_ One of the men hollers through the store, apparently no mind for safety, and very quickly after that they are rummaging through what little is left on the shelves.

 

Daryl is towering in front of her, and Carol is quick to realize what he is doing. Should anyone spot them back here, they'd only see Daryl, at least at first glance. Nervously, she swallows, suddenly all too aware that his hand is still grasping hers.

 

_Should've taken that when we were here last,_ the man she assumes is Danny says, sounding more than annoyed. His voice sounds gruff but not angry, and he laughs when something drops noisily to the floor. _Sally nearly pissed her pants when I told her I forgot._

 

_Just grab a couple._

 

Exhaling slowly, Carol slips her fingers in between Daryl’s, and he looks down at her in surprise, eyes slightly widened. No words pass her lips, but she can see her own fear reflecting in his eyes. The men seem preoccupied in the front and familiar with the place. It seems unlikely they'd even come looking back here, but still fear burns hot in her veins and she holds on to Daryl's hand with an almost painfully tight grasp.

 

_Think we can take that back to camp?_ Danny asks, and a contemplative silence follows. At the mention of the word 'camp', Carol's eyes widen and she mirrors Daryl whose head shoots to the side.

 

_Gotta come back with the truck, but yeah,_ the other man says, and the sound of something heavy dragging over the linoleum floor tears through the small store.

 

Carol is sure that the same questioning look she sees on Daryl’s face is reflected on her own. Briefly, a thought flickers through her mind, but then she remembers the still tight skin on her throat, and Daryl softly shakes his head. The risk, they decide silently, is too large.

 

Never faltering his grasp on her hand, Daryl nods towards another door. The milky glass window shows enough to reassure them it leads outside, and even though they can't tell for sure where it will lead them, it is their only way out. They wait another minute as the two men speak and once they begin to drag what Carol assumes is a piece of furniture across the floor, they decide to use the noise to their advantage.

 

Quick on their feet they slip across the room, the door thankfully unlocked. Outside, the sun glares down at a courtyard, and Carol breathes a sigh of relief when the door clicks shut behind them quietly.

 

Daryl does not drop her hand until they have made their way back to the car, parked securely a few streets away from the store. Carol looks down at her palm once she climbs into the passenger seat, resting it open in her lap when the engine roars to life.

 

* * *

 

They have to ditch the car the next day. The first flat tire he'd simply replaced with the spare, the second – only an hour later and he'd felt cursed – he'd fixed as well as he could with what little they had. But when he drove over a hill just twenty miles further down the road and instinctively, stupidly, swerved the car to avoid a walker that was dragging its bare and bloody feet over the road, the car was done for. He'd thanked all the damn gods that he'd been going slow, so when he lost control of the car and hit a tree, neither of them scrambled out of the useless vehicle with much more than a few scrapes, bruises and a sore neck.

 

Gathering their meager belongings, they decided to continue on foot. The small roads he'd chosen unfortunately meant that there was no other car to be found, at least none they could use, and so they were left with no other option.

 

 

 

She is shivering, he can tell even in the dark. Over the past week, temperatures have dropped quite drastically, reminding them both ruthlessly that winter is looming on the doorstep. In the car, they would at least have been sheltered from the wind that bites at their skin the closer they get to the coast – the closer they get to their goal. And the closer the get, the more their luck seems to wither away.

 

With nothing but a sleeping bag between their bodies and the cold, hard ground, even Daryl has struggles falling asleep. But the cold is the least of his problems. Night after night he lays awake, listening as the wind quietly rattles the empty food cans they have lined up on strings around wherever they have decided to sleep that night. A warming fire would require someone taking watch, and that would require strength they simply no longer have. Neither of them.

 

During the day, his eyes hardly ever stray from Carol. He notices the way she limps slightly since she took a wrong step the other day. He doesn't miss the way she still sometimes massages her shoulder when she assumes he isn't looking, and he wants to run a bolt through his heart knowing it was the crash that caused her pain. The crash he caused in the first place. She's quiet now, too. A defeated expression has taken over her face, evident in the dark circles and the sickly paleness of her skin.

 

His own feet ache from walking, walking, walking all day. His tongue is dry and sticking to the roof of his mouth whenever it takes them a day too long to find water. His back pops and cracks with every step and he sometimes catches himself drifting away when they allow themselves a moment of rest. Only at night, in the cold and dark, he can not sleep.

 

His own sleeping bag is close to hers, just as close as they'd been sleeping in the car. It has become a habit, he supposed. Plus, it's safer to stick closely together. And the hint of body heat is usually enough to distract him from the cold.

 

Tonight, though, she is trembling more than usual, and he can damn well nearly hear how uncomfortable she is. Tossing and turning from his side to his back and back onto his side, he's had enough.

 

_Screw this,_ he hisses quietly, scrambling onto his feet and dragging his sleeping back right next to where Carol is looking up at him. In the dark, he can't really make out her expression, but she sounds confused when she talks, voice heavy and tired.

 

_What-_ She drops whatever question she'd been about to ask when he drops down by her side.

 

_Can't sleep with ya teeth clattering like that,_ he explains, laying stiffly on his back with his entire side pressed to Carol's back. Great. Now what?

 

_This better?_ he asks, hating the way his voice trembles a little. She's a little too close now, he decides, but what kind of a jerk would he be if he moved away now. The slight warmth that radiates from her own body is a welcome reward, and he can feel her trembling begin to soften and a small, hears a barely audible sound of appreciation bubbling up from her throat. Damn it if that doesn't make him feel like he just cured the whole world of this fucking plague.

 

_Daryl-_ Carol begins, a strange and unfamiliar edge to her voice. It's nervous and fragile like a small bird, and he can feel her hand twitching too close to his own.

 

_Get some sleep,_ he interrupts her before she can say more, but it's really the sound of his name on her lips that echoes in his mind as her breathing eventually grows even by his side.

 

 

 

Daryl jolts awake, immediately forgetting the nightmare that had awoken him, too surprised by the fact that he'd actually been asleep. Dawn is just beginning to break, the blue of the night sky lightening and beginning to turn into a warmer color beyond the canopy of trees.

 

The first thing that Daryl notices is that he is feeling a lot warmer than he did before he fell asleep, and then his heart leaps in his chest and his whole body stiffens when he realizes why. Sometime during the night, he must have turned towards Carol. He's pressed up against her now, her back flush against his front, and a few curls of her hair tickle his nose where his head is resting mostly on her sleeping bag. His hand is frozen on her hip, one of her legs trapped between his.

 

Carol stirs against him before he can correct his mistake, and he is petrified, begging that she'll just go right back to sleep. But she doesn't.

 

Instead, she turns her head ever so slightly, sucking in a surprised breath. He only clears his throat in response, his hand fidgeting nervously against her hip. His heartbeat triples when she reaches for it, dragging his arm around her middle until their now entwined fingers rest against the sleeping bag.

 

_Thank you, Daryl_ , she rasps, voice tinted with sleep. Her words take him by surprise, but he's mostly too distracted to really think anything of it. She hasn't pushed him away. And in all honesty, he's feeling too warm to want to move away himself. Something about holding her like this does the complete opposite of what he expected, of what he has always felt being close to someone. He doesn't feel trapped or choked or made painfully aware of all his flaws. Keeping Carol this close eases the many worries that make sleep such a difficult comfort to obtain.

 

_For what?_ he asks, just a whisper. His breath hits the back of her neck and she shivers a little in his arms, a response that does things to him he doesn't really understand. It makes him feel oddly good about himself.

 

_Saving me._

 

The words shatter something in him, and he suddenly feels the need to move away. Carol won't let him, though, somehow knowing that she'd made him bolt, grasping his hand tighter and pulling him further against her.

 

So, he gives her a half-hearted grunt in response, remembering that day in Atlanta and not being quite able to shake the feeling that the person who was truly saved that day had been him.

 

_I'm glad you're here,_ Carol whispers then, a few words that disappear into the early dawn, words he's sure she never would have uttered in the light of day. Every inch of him fights against accepting them, a battle raging inside that is narrated by Merle and his father reminding him of his own worth.

 

He wants to tell her that he is glad she's here, too. That he would never have made it this far without her. But his tongue is tied just thinking about speaking those words out loud, and he's afraid she might just laugh them off, think him a fool for even taking her own words seriously.

 

Instead, he just gives her hand a squeeze, hoping desperately that she understands at least a little of what this means to him.

 

After that, he is wide awake. But it is enough comfort to hold Carol as she drifts back to sleep, and he wonders what the hell changed along the way.

 

* * *

 

The walker came out of nowhere. One second, Daryl had been hidden behind the popped hood of the car, making sure it was actually worth their effort as she dragged a mostly decomposed corpse out of the back seat, swatting away the flies that covered it. The next, she looked up when Daryl slammed the hood shut, her entire body freezing in shock.

 

Right behind him, a walker stumbles towards him, no more than three feet away, arms reaching out with the flesh torn right off them, exposing the yellowish bones underneath.

 

_Daryl!_ Her own cry pulls her from her stupor and Daryl’s eyes widen instantly in understanding. The corpse drops to the ground with a sloshing sound, but Carol is already leaping forwards. Before Daryl even has a second to reach for the crossbow on the ground, gnarly hands have grasped his shoulders.

 

Blood-stained teeth are inches away from his throat when Carol rams her knife through the walker's temple, the sound and feel of it sending a shiver down her spine. It sags to the ground, her knife following suit and clattering against the asphalt. Her eyes are fixed on Daryl, his entire body petrified, staring down at the young man who had nearly taken his life. Ever so slightly, his arms begin to shake, breathing turning ragged.

 

_Are you all right?_ She knows she sounds hectic and completely unhinged, the very opposite of how she should act considering how utterly shocked Daryl seems to be. But she can't keep herself from reaching out and running blood splattered hands up his trembling arms and over his shoulder, fingertips ghosting over his throat, needing to make sure she was quick enough, that there are neither bites nor scratches. When he doesn't answer and only grows more tense, she panics. _Daryl?_ His name trembles on her lips and she takes a step into his space, grasping his upper arms. _Daryl are you okay?_

 

The small and quivering sound she makes somehow seem to snap him out of his petrified state and he looks at her for a few long seconds that pass by much too slowly. Eventually, he nods, reaching up to pry her hands away from his arms. _'m fine,_ he reassures her weakly, but she is not sure she can believe him.

 

_Are you sure?_ Taking another step into his space, eyes still scanning every inch of exposed skin around his neck, she fights to let fear take over. The realization is jarring that one moment of weakness, of not paying proper attention, might have cost him his life. If she'd been too slow...

 

_Carol, 's all right, Daryl_ presses more insistently then as if he could read her mind, fingers curling around her wrists.

 

That proofs too much and Carol feels her entire body sagging against his, the adrenaline that had her body raging now evaporating. Tears dwell in her eyes as she softly shakes her head, heart warmed by the innocently confused expression on Daryl’s face. _No, it's not,_ she whispers. She hesitates for a moment, knowing that what she wants to say might scare him away. He has kept his distance since they fell asleep curled around each other last week, not talking more than necessary. At night, though, he's always there, wordlessly keeping her warm. But the events from just a minute ago flash violently in her memory, and she decides that the time for not saying what she means has gone to hell with the rest of the world. _I can't lose you, too._

 

Her voice is as soft as the thought is terrifying.

 

Sophia haunts her, a frightful smile always on her face in every memory she has. Taken from her just like her entire life. The grief she should feel has never come, no closure to allow it and make room for it in her heart. But something akin to grief shudders through her when she imagines being in this world without Daryl. From the very first day he has been by her side, and suddenly she is painfully afraid. So afraid that she drops her forehead to his shoulder and curls her arms around his neck. The fear that he might be taken from her just like every other good thing in her life is enough for her to collapse against him without shame.

 

Daryl is stiff as a board against her, but after a few moments of silent sobs, he wraps his arms around her middle, and it's more than enough. _Ain't goin' anywhere._

 

* * *

 

_That's it, this one!_ He turns to look at Carol when she whisper-shouts from where she's been perched over a stack of brochures for the last five minutes. She is waving one of them at him now and with one last glance through the window of the small tourist information office, he makes his way towards her.

 

He sinks down on one of the plush, green chairs around the polished wooden table. This whole place reeks of rich folks, but he won't complain. Not when they've finally made it to the coast, not when there are only about a dozen walkers spread out in the streets, easy to handle.

 

Taking the brochure from her hand, he looks at the glossy paper and pristine pictures of streets that look like someone high on nautical literature drew them.

 

_More than enough boats out there,_ he says, waving at the docks he can see through one of the windows. The ocean smooths into the horizon in the distance and it's a difficult task to tear his eyes away from the sight. Carol nods when he looks back at her, and unwilling to waste any more time, he stands and starts heading towards the door.

 

Carol isn't far behind, he can hear the steady thudding of her boots against the thick carpet. But then a delicate hand wraps around his forearm and he stops, turning to look at her. Her eyes look timid and hazy and she flickers them between the door to the market place and his own face.

 

_What do we do if there are a people there?_ she asks quietly, adjusting the heavy backpack slung over her shoulder. It's not a question he didn't expect, and one they have asked themselves before. But this is their last chance to back out, to drop this plan and find an alternative. But the air outside is chilly and unforgiving and they might be running out of time to find another way.

 

_Just gonna check it out,_ he says with a shrug, trying to sound more confident than he is. In truth, he hopes that the place is littered with walkers instead of people. He can handle the Dead. But he can't handle to disappear in a crowd of living people, the type of people Carol would steer towards to, drifting away from him. It's a selfish thought and he's ashamed of himself for even thinking it. Carol, however, looks far from hopeful to find other people, so he hopes that they might be on the same page. _Maybe they were evacuated._

 

With a sigh, Carol drops his hand, nodding.

 

Outside, the ocean rushes and seagulls fill the air, the wind lashing at them. He leads them to the docks wordlessly, only a few walkers taking note of them. It's almost too easy, he thinks as he helps her into a boat.

 

But what else is there to do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll either manage to write another chapter this week (because I don't have to work) or you'll have to wait a little while because I'm going on vacation next week and won't be able to write. But I'll try to my best to update again before I leave.


	5. the tide.

It is bitterly cold and Carol's stomach revolts against the steady swaying of the boat beneath them. All around them, the water is a dark shade of blue, not quite black, but too dark to make out anything beneath. It's a jarring thought, thinking that an abyss is opened beneath them. The shiver that runs through her entire body goes unnoticed.

 

The island stretches on before them, and they are close enough to the small harbor to be granted a decent view. In the sorrowful light of the rapidly increasing gray clouds overhead, it makes for a sorry sight. Slicked with salt water, dead quiet except for the almost haunting tune of the seagulls above.

 

A few walkers are roaming the otherwise empty streets, oblivious for now to their presence. Carol tries to count them, but the main street quickly takes a turn behind a row of houses and there's no way of telling what lies beyond. But there are too many of them roaming freely to assume that many people are still alive here.

 

_Why are there so many of them?_ Carol keeps her voice down despite the distance, a habit enforced on her after months during which even the smallest noise could have cost them both their lives. Fingers curl and uncurl against her thighs as she watches Daryl, waiting for his response.

 

He remains quiet for a while, but the look that crosses his face is one she recognizes all too well by now. He is worried, perhaps even more so than she is. _Maybe someone got bit on the main land and came back 'ere,_ he wonders out loud, and it seems like a plausible enough explanation. _Looks like the place fell early, 's all in good shape._

 

Her own gaze wanders back towards the island. It looks nothing like she remembers it now that the Dead roam the streets. But Daryl is right. The houses all appear locked up in such a fashion that reminds her of a quiet suburban neighborhood after everyone has left for work. Most of the boats she recalls swaying at the docks in the harbor are gone. Her mind spins as she tries to imagine what happened here. How a single infected person could have wiped out so many others. Where the survivors went – if there even were any. An eery quiet has taken hold of the already sleepy town.

 

_We should leave._ She shudders, the empty streets and glistening wet cobble stone suddenly sending chills down her spine. The cresting of water against sturdy rock sounds harsh and the song of the birds overhead menacing. The old houses loom like a threat, the colorful paints on the shutters surely beginning to peal, the empty and lifeless windows like an omen of what could hide in the darkness beyond.

 

A brief touch of a hand on her arm pulls her out of her dark thoughts, but by the time she turns to face Daryl, he has already retreated.

 

_If it really fell early, this could be the jackpot,_ he states, not sounding as determined and sure of himself as his words might imply. _Ya said there were stores?_ She nods, and he swallows deftly in response. _We can check them houses, see what food's left there. Hell, it sure as hell ain't lookin' like someone still lives 'ere._ His eyes are full of something that she might have called fear, but there is no room for that in their lives, she thinks. They can't be afraid, it will only make them weak.

 

_Can have ya pick,_ Daryl chuckles nervously, and the thin-lipped smile she offers in response fades just as quickly. _'s a good place, he_ continues after a long pause, and Carol wonders – not for the first time – if he can read her thoughts. She brought them here. All of it had been her idea all along, and here they are, with nowhere else to go but forwards. _Ain't gotta worry 'bout no walkers once we take these out. Just gotta get some supplies and water from the mainland._

 

She wants to believe in just his words, in the plan forging so easily in her mind. But the pitch of his voice, the reservation in his eyes, the tension in his neck, it all feeds into her unwanted fear. No matter how hard he tries to convince her, she can't shake the feeling he is only trying to convince himself.

 

_You really think we could make it work?_ The question slips past her lips on a stuttering breath that hiccups in the salty air, and her fingers fumble absentmindedly with the knife at her belt.

 

The determination in Daryl’s eyes carries a hint of desperation, almost like a mad man clinging to the only straw left that ties him to his sanity. They can't go back, there is nowhere else to go. Not when the winds have grown claws and teeth and raindrops begin to transform into needles that pierce their raw skin.

 

He nods just once, and it's all she knows she'll get. _We gotta._

 

Her gaze trails back towards the island. For a moment, Carol tries to uncover the beauty she once saw in this place. The old houses, quirky and neatly rowed side by side, creaking and moaning in the constant breeze. The uneven streets, too narrow for cars, lined with small stores that sold anything from groceries, overpriced clothes and souvenirs. The beaches, sandy and soft, dusted with greens and framed by the slightest hills. The water, sparkling in the summer sun, tightening her skin into goosebumps as bare feet slipped through the cresting waves.

 

It is still there, hidden, soaked into the creases between blood and death. Its serenity had lured her here, had planted the seed into her brain. Perhaps it has not quite washed away.

 

With surprising ease, Carol dares to imagine what it could be like. To stay here, with Daryl. To spend at least the winter here that lingers constantly on the horizon. Locked away behind stone walls, a fire crackling with fizzing embers, warm stew filling their stomachs, a night of restful sleep on a real bed with soft sheets.

 

_I want to,_ she croaks, the thought not at all bad. The plaster of fear begins to crumble slowly, and as she looks at Daryl with the same sort of mad determination, relief washes over his face.

 

_We can._

 

* * *

 

He nearly slips on something soft, one glance down towards the cobblestone street offering him a grizzly view. Guts are strewn left and right, torn apart and spilling from the maggot covered cavity of a hallowed-out body. It must have been a child, judging by the short size and the brightly patterned bits of fabric that remain.

 

Daryl ignores the jab of pain at the thought, just as he ignores the near brutal pounding of his heart, racing to fulfill a lifetimes worth of beats in no more than a handful of minutes.

 

Hectic eyes skim through the narrow little alleyways that trail off the main road like blood vessels. The crossbow nearly slips from his sweaty hands. He can't find her.

 

_Carol!_ Her name echoes through the empty streets. All that answers him is silence, not the sweet sound of his own name on her lips. Not even the familiar snarls and moans that have served as this small towns hymn for God knows how long. Most of the walkers are gone now, strewn dead along the sides of the road. Less than three dozen of them, not too much to take out between him and Carol. But even one can be one too much.

 

He repeats her name on a desperate note. The thought of being all alone here haunts him like a phantom, hovering above his shoulder. He can no longer shake it, a persistent ghost that follows him wherever he goes. It's all he wanted his whole life long. To be alone, to be left alone by the rest of the world with their judgmental stares and hushed words spoken behind his back. In a curious and morbidly beautiful way, the end of the world might have meant the fulfillment of his lifelong wish. An answer to a prayer he sent to a God he never truly believed in.

 

Now at the threshold of what he always deemed his one and only escape – solitude – the mere idea of being without Carol by his side chills the marrow in his bones. Something burns in his eyes, vulnerable to the harsh wind, and it takes him a minute to recognize it as tears. They spill freely as he runs down the slippery road, soaked in rivers of sea water and blood.

 

She'd stumbled into his mess of a life the very moment he might have finally been granted his plea, only now he realizes what it truly is he's always craved. Not to be alone. But to be with someone who doesn't have judgment or pity in her eyes, whose lips do not bear slithering words. He can no longer make it alone. He does not want to. Out here on the sea with no other living, breathing soul, might as well give the illusion of him as the last man on Earth. He can't imagine a scarier thought.

 

_Carol?_ His aching thighs finally surrender and he slows down until his feet are dragging slowly towards a white staircase. His voice has grown quiet, hoarse, and he drops his knife without blinking. It clatters noisily to the ground in front of the pearly white stairs. The house to which they lead must be the town hall, he assumes. It's grander than the others, pillars framing the heavy wooden door. Corpses are piled up on the steps, mashed and torn flesh staining the marble.

 

He hasn't killed these walkers. But their blood is fresh, their bodies not quite as rotten as some of the others he has come across.

 

She's been here.

 

They'd been separated before when a group of nearly a dozen walkers had surprised them. In his mind, he can still hear himself shouting at her to _run_ , can see the glimpse of her silver hair as she slipped into one of the treacherous, crooked alleyways.

 

Taking deep breaths that expand his bruised ribcage, Daryl allows his gaze to drift over the corpses at his feet. Most of them appear to be elderly, long white and gray hair crusted with blood, flannel sleepwear long torn to expose their innards. Nightmarish visions of what must have transpired here flash through his mind in midnight blue hues and lighting bolts of angry red. It's not a far stretch to imagine what might have happened to Carol after she slipped away, as lithe as she always has been, as quiet as he taught her to be.

 

This place, run-down and worn in the sort of pretentious way rich folks enjoyed, must have once held true beauty. A sense of calm away from the bustle of the real world. It is no more than a graveyard now, and his heart weeps iron tears at the thought that it might become Carol's final resting place. It can't be. It mustn't. Not when she'd been so terrified to even take a step on land. He'd recognized the fear that dimmed the light in her eyes, and yet he'd talked her into this. Too afraid himself of the void that the alternative held.

 

_Daryl!_

 

The familiar sound of his name is like the sweetest song and he spins so fast on his heels that he feels dizzy for a moment. Carol is staggering towards him, unsteady on her feet and swaying oddly. Blood is soaking her clothes head to toe, from her pale cheeks down her chest and stomach until it reaches the leg of her boots. Even from this distance he can see the tears that glisten on her face, a stark reminder of his own threatening to freeze in the cold.

 

He takes the four desperately wide strides it requites to get to her and then she is sagging against him, falling into his arms. All her weight rests against him as her sobs wreck her body, and he curls his arms around her long enough to haul her up against him.

 

_Ya hurt?_ He sounds desperate and pressing, running his hands up and down her back, feeling the warmth and stickiness of blood coating his calloused palms. Vaguely, he can feel her shaking her head against his chest, but he needs to know, needs to make sure than none of the crimson liquid belongs to her.

 

Gently, he pries her away from himself, just enough to look down at her. _Ya sure?_ Fingers are curled around her thin upper arms, holding her upright. His eyes are fixed on hers, cast downwards for the longest moment until he rasps her name. _Carol..._

 

Two pools of summer blue look up at him then with so much relief that he can't quite believe anyone could ever look at him like that. But something else is hidden behind the tears that brim and cling in fragile droplets to her lashes. It's like a facade has broken that she'd upheld for too long. All these months, she has been calm and almost cold some days. At first glance meek, weak and entirely unsuited for this world and yet at the same time braving the storm with a great deal more grace and poise than he ever could.

 

Still, he always wondered what storms must brew under the surface. And now she's cracked open like a delicate and beautiful vase, the rifts in the porcelain shell growing, no longer able to enclose what it once sheltered securely.

 

Daryl wonders when she stepped up so close to him, but her breath is warm and damp on his cold face, and he can nearly count the freckles on her nose. _I was scared._ It is a mere whisper and the words redundant, to say the least. Every sane person should be scared these days. But something lingers in the silence that follows, and it gives him a twisted sense of hope. Perhaps she was just as afraid of losing him as the thought of losing her tore him apart.

 

Nimble fingers curl into his shirt, short nails scraping against his chest through the worn fabric. He's sure she can feel his heart pounding, but then it calms, oddly enough.

 

All his life, he's flinched away from human touch. But when Carol rises onto the tips of her toes and presses her forehead to his, it's the only place he ever wants to be.

 

_Me, too,_ he admits quietly before he can stop himself. Almost instantly, he waits for the blow to follow. For the embarrassment, the laughter, the ridicule. But none of it comes. Instead, Carol's eyes flutter shut and she sighs, lingering.

 

It startles him when he realizes how badly he wants to kiss her. It would be obscenely easy to breach the miniscule distance between them and press his lips to hers. He'd never liked kisses, had avoided them at all costs. They always felt too intimate, too soft no matter how hungry they could grow. Hell, he can't even remember the last time he'd actually kissed someone.

 

But he wants to kiss Carol in this moment like the air they breathe depends on it. Not because he wants her. Not because it will change things. No. He'd crawl under her damn pale skin to make sure she's all right and to remind himself that she is really here, and a kiss is the only path that seems close enough to that.

 

He doesn't do it, can't find the courage in him. And it wouldn't be right. He doesn't want her, not like that (although flickering memories of a brief moment of respite by the river begin to pester him once more, not for the first time). They've already grown too attached to each other. Too dependent.

 

Above all, she doesn't deserve it, the implications it would inevitably carry. What would happen after?

 

(later, when she pulls away and smiles at him, daryl wonders if perhaps he's just too fucking scared to even hope she might actually _want_ him to kiss her.)

 

* * *

 

They decide to burn all the bodies right away. If they are really going to stay here, then the last thing either of them wants is to be surrounded by the eye-watering stench of rotting flesh and the stomach-churning sight of blood and guts.

 

In an attempt to draw less attention to themselves – still weary of the apparent calm – they light a number of smaller fires as opposed to one large pyre. Wood crackles and sparks fizzle as flesh melts off bones, and Carol keeps her eyes fixed on the horizon instead as they stand by the last pyre. She is sick of it all.

 

There must be more walkers behind the thick stone walls of the small houses, but the sun is beginning to set rapidly, and she has learned by now that hunting in the dark merely turns you into the prey.

 

As they make their way back to the harbor in silence to collect the supplies they hid there earlier, Carol hears the echo of Daryl's words in her memory. _Can have ya pick._ It's true. An odd sense of luxurious freedom washes over her at the idea that all the houses on this island could belong to them now.

 

In the end, it is a silent agreement they make. Sealed with nothing but a brief glance and two curt nods.

 

The small house on the low hill is overlooking most of the small island. White-washed wooden planks cover it like a rustic embrace, blue shutters almost sweet and inviting. Cobblestone gives way to gravel for the last few yards, the porch steps creaking.

 

A rocking chair is swaying slightly in the breeze, a knitted blanket thrown over it, a book abandoned on the small table by its side.

 

Considering the small size of the island, this is the most secluded place they can find. Five minutes on foot away from the first neat rows of houses.

 

The front door is shut but the rose-stained glass that once adorned it is shattered on the ground in front of it, indicating that someone slammed the door shut so hard it broke. The shards crunch underneath the soles of their heavy boots as they make their way inside.

 

Carol's heart begins to pound once more in the cage of her ribs, her knife raised as Daryl knocks his crossbow against a dresser by the door to draw attention to themselves.

 

Blessed silence is the only response.

 

The house looks like something out of a quaint television show, Carol muses as they quietly check all the rooms. Plush furniture, lovingly framed family photographs, knitted throw pillows, a brick fireplace. The owners must have left in a frightened hurry judging by the abandoned plates on the round kitchen table. Flies and maggots have infested what looks like were once pancakes, milk has turned sour and thick in the floral mugs.

 

Together, they barricade the front door. The silence that has engulfed them for a few hours now is slowly becoming thick and unbearable, and Carol feels a rush of embarrassment at how desperately happy she'd been to see him earlier. After roaming the narrow alleys all alone, so afraid that Daryl might be hurt or gone that she could barely suck in enough air, seeing him had her soaring.

 

Glancing at him from the corner of her eye, a flush tints her neck and cheeks. They'd been so close, his breath warm and his hands much gentler than his appearance might have made her believe. She looks away quickly when her sigh alerts him, but he doesn't press for the cause.

 

The two bedrooms upstairs – both over looking the sea – lay side by side. Outside, night has fallen and all that illuminates the dark hallway is the small lantern Daryl holds up. They linger between the two doors, white painted and shiny wood, suddenly lost.

 

For weeks, they have slept closer than ever before, offering each other warmth and shelter and the meager equivalent of comfort in this world. But there'd been no other valid option. Stick together or lay awake freezing, trembling, shivering. Now, it's suddenly a choice. A choice that is drenched in doubts and an awkward tension that Carol longs to wipe away. Wondering if she'd created it by drawing him so close earlier.

 

Trying to deny that she doesn't want to sleep alone would be foolish. She's terrified to be alone, doesn’t know if she'll ever even find the courage to close her eyes beyond a blink.

 

_Do you want..._ Her voice falters a little and she watches as Daryl shifts his weight nervously. The slight movement causes the lantern to swing and the shadows dance in a captivating pattern on the walls, bathing him in hues of blue and orange. Still, she does not miss the blush that creeps into his cheeks.

 

_Might be safer 'til we've checked the whole place,_ he replies. His attempt to sound casual fails and it only intensifies the raw tingling of her nerves. This is suddenly different.

 

She nods. _Yes._

 

 

 

That night, they fall asleep uneasily on the big, soft bed. Still dressed in their blood-stained clothes. Clutching their weapons to their hearts. At least three feet of space between them.

 

The space filled with a tidal wave of questions that have built for weeks without either of them noticing.

 

 

 

(in her dreams, he is torn apart a hundred times before even one of the questions can be answered.)

 

* * *

 

For the first time in his life, Daryl feels like what he is doing actually means something. It's important. It's valued. Cherished even.

 

The first few days pass in a blur of sweat and aching limbs. Him and Carol feel more like a team than he and Merle ever did. Understanding each other mostly without words these days as they check all the houses on the island, take out the few walkers still left inside.

 

Having something to do without the need to run and keep moving is rewarding. After so many months on the road, knowing that they will have a place to return to every night gives him comfort.

 

When he burns the last dead bodies, he's already aching to warm his stiff fingers against the fireplace in their house. When they raid through strangers' cabinets for food, his mouth is already watering at the thought of a warm meal shared at a proper table. When he and Carol repair the front door and barricade the ground floor windows, he doesn't feel caged. Instead, it's more than enough knowing they can fall asleep in a warm bed later without having to worry.

 

He isn't doing any of this because he has to. Or because his brother told him to. He is no longer drifting, wading through life like a drowning man through the sea. He is doing this for them. For her. For himself.

 

 

 

More and more he believes this place fell suddenly and quickly. Most of the kitchens and stores are still completely stocked. Meals abandoned on the tables. Clothes strewn left and right where open suitcases were left behind.

 

If they ration smartly, the food they've found will last them months. There is a well in someone's backyard, a little old but working well enough. Two quick trips to the mainland for more supplies have them as prepared for the winter as they can be.

 

The first day, though, they make a discovery neither of them could have prepared for. They'd been in the third house, and Carol had called for him from the bedroom. He'd hurried there, dropping the cans of pea soup he'd been pulling from the kitchen cabinet.

 

_Y'all right?_ he'd asked as he rushed into the bedroom, seeing Carol perched over a dead elderly woman on the ground.

 

Carol nodded, her eyes fixed on the woman at her feet. Long, white hair. An emerald green nightgown. All alone. _The door was locked,_ she said, fingertips drumming against the blood-coated blade of her knife. _It was locked._

 

She'd sounded confused, and for a moment he wondered if the sight of the lonely old woman was what had upset her. Droplets of blood trickled from her knife onto her boots in a quick, unsteady rhythm.

 

_I don't think she's been bit._

 

He stepped into the room uneasily. _Can't be,_ he muttered, joining Carol as she sank down onto her knees. For a moment, they looked at each other. Then, with a sadness that clung to her heavily, she sighed.

 

Her fingers trembled when she reached for the hem of the woman's nightgown. Daryl looked away when she lifted it, staring at the floral tapestry on the wall instead. This felt wrong. So wrong that his throat tightened and his palms turned clammy.

 

He felt Carol turning the woman around enough to inspect her back, and only when he was sure she'd tugged everything back into place did he dare meet her eyes. Waiting.

 

Horror widened them and turned them dark. A single shake of her head and all he thought he knew for months suddenly crumbled. All they'd been so sure of now fell apart like a house of cards.

 

 

 

They do not talk about it much now, do not dwell on theorizing. They never have, not even during those first few days in Atlanta when the world went down in flames. There had never been much point to it. Perhaps there are answers out there, people who understand what has happened, who could explain it in grand words and scientific clarity. But they are not those people.

 

 

 

At night, they still share the same bed. But being close to her is suddenly different.

 

There is no real reason for it anymore. Back on the road, it had been for warmth and security's sake. Now, they have a fireplace in the bedroom, soft blankets, a house that is locked up tight. Nothing threatens them and still there is a pull he can no longer deny.

 

The more isolated they have become over the past few months, the more he feels himself tied to her. Unable to stray from her for too long.

 

At night, he lies awake, staring up at the ceiling where the flames cast dancing shadows. By his side – too far away now because he's too afraid to breach the distance – he listens to the even sound of her breathing, a rhythm as soothing as a lullaby.

 

It should be enough.

 

But somehow, it isn't. Not anymore. No matter how many times he reminds himself that it wouldn't be right. That he doesn't want any of it. Doesn't want _her_. That she would never want _him_.

 

But why is she still here, then?

 

* * *

 

Sighing contently, Carol puts the now empty bowl down on the coffee table. Her mouth still waters from the spicy taste of the warm soup, her stomach pleasantly filled. The flames in the fireplace dance slowly, the glow of their heat spreading until it crawls under her skin.

 

Wiggling her socked toes tucked beneath herself, Carol leans back against the couch, the soft and plush cushions welcoming her back. By her side, Daryl is scraping up the last remnants of his own soup.

 

The comfort is only an illusion, the reality of their situation never far behind. It lurks in the boots that are ready and laced up on the floor by the couch. It's evident in the knives still strapped to their belts. But for a few brief moments, it's too tempting not to indulge in the sweetness of a moment like this.

 

Shifting her weight, Carol feels her shoulder pressing against Daryl’s arm. He tenses slightly for a moment but then continues to eat, and she takes it as a good sign. Her stomach flutters a little, the memories of him so close just a few days ago always ready to distract her. She'd felt safe in his arms when she hasn't felt anything even remotely related to safety in a man's arms in decades. The surprise when he didn't push her away had felt almost terrifyingly rewarding.

 

It had felt right.

 

_I'm glad you're here._ It's a nervous whisper and Carol wonders where those words even came from. She hadn't meant to speak them out loud, and yet they'd escaped the shy and hesitant corner of her heart that now seemingly belongs to Daryl alone.

 

She does not quite dare to look at him, although no sense of regret washes over her. It's the truth, and she knows how much much he doubts himself. In his eyes, she can always see a special sort of lonely fear. In his movements, it's too easy to detect how much he despises touch. Closeness. Intimacy. In spite of all that, she's overcome by the desire to let him know what it means to her that he is here. With her.

 

With a heavy feeling in her heart, she leans her head on his shoulder. Daring. He tenses once more, only for the breadth of a second before putting down his bowl. The sound the porcelain makes against the soft wood of the table breaks the silence momentarily, almost jarringly so. Then, an arm curls around her, a warm hand resting on her upper arm.

 

His own courage echoes as bravery in her veins and her next words are spoken with determination, no matter how much her croaking voice wants to convince her otherwise. _I don't want to be alone._

 

For years, she'd blamed her fear of being alone for staying with Ed. For marrying him in the first place when her young heart had never been truly convinced. But being all by herself had seemed a lot more frightening than marrying a man she talked herself into being in love with.

 

The fear has changed now. It's different. Truly, she should have worded it differently. What really rests on her heart is that she doesn't want to be without Daryl anymore. But those words might be too much, might scare him away. And she doesn't quite understand them yet herself.

 

Cautiously, she reaches for his hand, boldness causing her heart to thunder.

 

_Y'aint alone no more,_ Daryl mutters as he allows her to slip her fingers between his. Somehow, despite being a stranger, he seems to understand that she has been alone for a long time. Even as a mother. Even in her marriage.

 

Carol turns her head just enough to be able to look up at him. The flames are dancing in his eyes, a wicked and luring image. Neither of them seems bothered by how close they suddenly are. Instead, it's a captivating moment, bathed in orange light, softening the rough edges of their starved and worn bodies.

 

For so many years, she has known no touch that wasn't intended for torture or pain. Even her daughter's sweet touch always carried a hint of bitter-sweetness. A longing and a reminder of the better life she wasn't able to give her little girl. Now, none of that even crosses her mind. Daryl's hand is warm and calloused, rough but tender in her own grasp.

 

A foreign longing tugs low in her belly, something she has not felt in too long. Distant and faded memories slip through her mind like photographs, the colors worn out over the years. Dull and scraped. Back in those featherlight days before she met Ed, when life was ripe and bursting with promise.

 

She feels a rush of that now as her eyes take in the sight of him. The scruff on his cheeks, the chapped pink of his lips, the surprisingly honest wonder in his eyes.

 

It takes her a minute to understand what it is she truly wants, those parts of her too rusty to spring into action without coaxing. But when realization dawns on her and the wheels begin to spin, a breathy sigh passes her lips. She wants to kiss him. Truly. Not as a thank you, not as a reward or a distraction. Simply because she wants to.

 

And she does not miss the way his own eyes – blue and piercing – flicker down towards her slightly parted lips. For all his shyness, it stirs the fires in her knowing that he might want the same. But something holds her back. The same old fear. Intensified now by their predicament.

 

Would it be right to tie herself to him like this? To give them both light in the midst of darkness when it could only ever be the most fragile of flames stuck in the midst of a tempest? How long could it burn before being inevitably suffocated?

 

How long do either of them have left? It would hurt too much, would increase the already deep and slicing pain she could feel for those terrifying moment when they were separated.

 

A sad smile tugs at her lips.

 

With another weary sigh, she leans up, pressing the softest of kisses to the corner of Daryl’s mouth. Caught somewhere between a proper yet chaste kiss and a mere brush against his cheeks. Undecided. An odd sort of half-kiss that fits them just right, she muses as she leans back against his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry about the rather long wait for this. But I was on vacation for a week and real life decided to get unexpectedly very grim, so I wasn't really in the mood for writing. I do hope this chapter was worth the wait ❤


	6. lifeline.

The temperatures drop significantly over the first few days, and Carol wonders if it's a sign that they were meant to come here. Out on the road, the biting winds and layers of frost might have cost them their lives. Now, they are mostly keeping inside by the warm fire with thick clothes and full bellies.

 

Once upon a time, she believed in fate and destiny, in a greater plan that would make all the pain she had to go through only appear like wrinkles in the end. But she has long lost faith in ideas like these, can not fathom a greater plan worth the horrors of this world. The loss of her girl.

 

Nevertheless, the silence of the island slowly begins to grow on her.

 

 

 

They try to keep busy, neither of them ready to face the quiet that boredom brings – an arena for thoughts to wander and grow claws. For doubts and questions to rise like the tide.

 

Daryl has his mind set on making the house they chose as safe as possible, spending hours in the frost nailing shut most of the windows, dragging a boat closer to the house through the cold waves, the icy water soaking his clothes.

 

Carol tries to offer her help as much as she can, but he refuses it more than he accepts it. _Better stay inside, it's warmer,_ is what he usually says. _Can do it on my own,_ is how he brushes off her insistent probing. And after a while, she allows him the time he apparently needs for himself.

 

The inside of the house feels like a museum to her, a freeze frame out of someone else's life. It's sickening to sleep in someone's bed at night, to eat at their table knowing what most likely happened to them. Carol feels like someone put her into a dollhouse, dusty and old. The dolls long gone.

 

She makes it their own. Throws out family photographs and other keepsakes, everything that is drenched in strangers' memories. It is how she fills the long hours of her days.

 

* * *

 

It is dark outside, the sun long gone, and the candle light flickers across Carol's face. He doesn't know what she might look like in the harsh light of a proper lamp but he can't imagine there being any flaws brought to life. It is a thought that has him cringing, and he digs into the fish soup she made with more vigor than necessary.

 

He feels warm, his socked feet are dry, the clothes he wears clean, his face scrubbed. Warm food fills his belly and the raw and aggravated skin on his knuckles is covered in a thick cream. A little too good to be true.

 

Carol, though, seems different tonight. Quiet, gazing into the fire.

 

_Y'all right?_ he asks, reaching out for the stale crackers Carol put on a gold-rimmed plate. Like it actually made a difference if they ate it from fancy dishes instead of the crinkly package. But perhaps, he wonders, it does make a difference to her.

 

She sighs at his words, putting down the spoon she'd been balancing between her fingers like a forgotten trinket. _I think we missed Christmas,_ she states then, her words void of any emotion.

 

His forehead wrinkles as he breaks the cracker in two, crumbs dusting over his bowl of soup. _Hmm?_

 

_Christmas,_ Carol repeats, tearing her gaze away from the fire and looking at him instead. He wonders if he'll ever manage to hold her gaze for longer than a second. _I'm pretty sure we missed it._

 

He doesn't know how to fill the silence that follows. Something wavers in Carol's eyes that he has not seen there for a long time. The flicker of old memories to which he has no access. All his life, he never really cared about Christmas. Deep in his heart, he always longed to care. Vivid memories of his childhood flash in his mind now – admiring the bright lights strung around the trees in people's front yards. The catchy songs playing on the radio. The excited chatter from his classmates. But he always felt like an outside. More than usual.

 

There was never a tree in his house. No lights. No presents. No songs. It was a day like any other, and any other day was just one more than could have been his last.

 

But Carol seems to care, to care deeply.

 

Not about a tree or fucking fairy lights. Not about perfectly wrapped up presents or a massive meal. Something else lingers in her gaze and he waits for her to speak again.

 

_Sophia loved Christmas,_ she whispers then, so quietly and so faintly as if he wasn't here at all. The words sound intimate, and just as always when she mentions her little girl, Daryl feels like he is intruding on a quiet, private moment. But she shares willingly, keeping the memories of her daughter alive. _And it was the one time of the year that Ed would actually-_ Carol freezes, her eyes widening a little. Briefly, she meets his gaze, looking almost shocked that she uttered those words out loud. She has not actually said anything yet, but the unspoken ending of the sentence trails between them like a thin red line.

 

He has wondered. Night after night and day after day since he dragged that child off her in the streets of Atlanta. All she ever talked about was Sophia. Getting back to her. Never her husband. Even then, he assumed her marriage could not have been a happy one. But over the months as her layers started to peel off he began to see the truth. Something he feared.

 

His own mother still haunts him to this day, the few blurry memories he still has of her constantly creeping into his mind. The same hesitation, the same fear whenever he moves abruptly or too fast. The same weariness.

 

_He hit ya?_ he asks before he can stop himself, the short question sharp as a knife between them. Carol's eyes widen even further and he doesn't miss the way she curls in on herself, shrinking into her chair. _'M sorry,_ he mutters quickly, face flushing furiously and his appetite wavering. He looks down at the smooth wooden tabletop, polished and without flaws. It's mocking him, and the anger that flares inside his veins is directed at himself mostly. Still, there is a part of it that swells at the thought of Carol's husband, a faceless phantom. _Shouldn't have asked that._

 

He can't bear to look at her now, at the disappointment and pain his words have surely etched onto her face. The urge to bolt is almost too pressing to ignore, but he knows it won't fix his mistake.

 

_He did._ It's a small, trembling whisper, and he looks up at Carol despite his shame. Her eyes are glistening with tears, but there is not even a hint of blame in them. Nothing even close to it is directed at him. Pure sadness washes over her, her starved body melting into the chair.

 

The wish to fix her is nearly overwhelming, to brush away the sadness and happy memories. He shouldn't think like that, and he has no idea why he does. Whether he cares so damn much about her because there is nobody else to care about or because he simply... does. He doesn't remember ever caring about anything or anyone like this all his life. It's suffocating at times, enclosing around his heart like a fist. Mostly gentle, something he is not used to.

 

He wants to fix her. But he never even learned to fix himself.

 

_'M sorry ya missed Christmas,_ he says instead. It's a weak apology for something that truly wasn't his fault, but it's all he has got. Carol offers him a slight nod, but he can see the lasting impact of his thoughtless question.

 

She isn't Merle. She isn't alike anyone he grew up with. Like anyone he ever knew before.

 

He is desperate now to see her smile again – the nervous kind when she dares to allow her lips to curl despite everything that has happened. Quietly, he makes a decision, his heart beating a little faster in his chest.

 

Merle would have a thing or two to say to him if he could read his mind now.

 

* * *

 

_Daryl, are you okay?_ Carol asks through the closed bedroom door. She's more than a little concerned. Daryl had been gone for hours earlier, much longer than ever before. Their conversation from last night still lingers heavily and Carol can not help but worry that he is pulling away from her. That he might be disgusted with her confession. Or too afraid, avoiding the eggshells he must expect to tread on around her.

 

But she doesn't want that. Sure, his question had taken her by surprise, the bluntness of it both fitting him and foreign at the same time. He was crude sometimes and still managed to seep shyness like a wound leaks fluid.

 

When he locked himself in the bedroom after finally returning, Carol had felt her stomach drop. Driven by the need to settle things between them, she is now lingering in front of the door.

 

_Yeah,_ Daryl replies, his voice muffled. She jolts a little when something heavy seems to drop inside the room, instantly followed by a familiar gruff curse. _Gimme a minute._

 

She decides to give him what he asked for despite the fact that be has been in there for well over an hour now. The sun is setting rapidly outside and her stomach is beginning to grumble, too used already to regular meals.

 

With a sigh , Carol leans against the wall next to the door, staring quietly at the floral wallpaper.

 

When the door opens a short while later, her confusion doesn't ease. Daryl squeezes himself through a crack in the door, face flushed and eyes cast downwards. He looks utterly miserable and... embarrassed, for a lack of a better word.

 

_Are you sure you're okay?_ she asks, taking a curious and cautious step towards him. He nods, biting nervously at the already ragged skin around his thumbnail.

 

_Have a surprise for ya,_ he mutters, and she gets the impression that it costs him all his courage to say the words.

 

_A surprise?_

 

Daryl finally looks up at her, eyes raw and vulnerable. With something akin to a nervous shudder, he pushes open the bedroom door.

 

Her heart flutters in her chest at lighting speed and the tears that dwell in her eyes are perilously close to spilling over.

 

_Merry Christmas._

 

The fire is licking at the brick fireplace like it does every night, but now a brightly colored stocking is hanging from the mantlepiece, filled to the brim. The vanity table has been dragged to stand in front of the fire, two chairs made more comfortable with plush cushion. A small, fake tree is standing in the middle of it, candles clipped to the thin branches, casting a dozen flickering shadows. Shiny ornaments perfect the plastic needles, mismatched and overflowing. Two gold-trimmed bowls with steaming soup are framed by silver cutlery and blood red napkins. Candles are scattered on every bit of free space, the room bathed in the warm light. A small present sits on the bed, wrapped in colorful paper.

 

She hasn't even realized that she moved her legs until she stands in the middle of the room, Daryl hovering behind her. The tears blur her vision, but when she turns she can see the way his shoulders tense and his eyes bore through her.

 

There are no words adequate enough to thank him for this, and she knows he doesn't care about words either. So, before she can stop herself, she crosses the distance and curls her arms around him, pulling herself flush against him. All the airs seems to rush from his lungs but then he moves, curling one arm around her until his hand rests against the small of her back. Warm and steadying.

 

Her heart stutters a little when she leans in closer, pressing her lips to his cheek.

 

_Merry Christmas._

 

 

 

With a soft moan, Carol leans back into her chair, the last piece of chocolate melting on her tongue. Daryl had refused her offer to share the bar he'd conjured after they finished their soup – a soup he'd barely touched.

 

She eyes him now, quiet and seemingly lost in thought. Deep down, she understands why he keeps to himself now. This gesture must have cost him all his courage, the possibility of her rejecting it probably haunting him like a ghost all day. But he pulled through anyway, and Carol can not shake the idea that this is meant as an apology for last night. There is no need to apologize, to beat himself up about it. In a way, she is glad that he knows the truth now. Whatever the cost.

 

He clears his throat then, scrambling to his feet and grabbing the present from the bed. Small snowflakes adorn the glossy paper, all of them glittering in different colors. Daryl doesn’t say a word as he holds it out for her.

 

With trembling fingers she unwraps it, careful not to tear the paper. Some of the glitter sheds onto her hand, pinks and blues and silvers clinging to her skin.

 

What is revealed when the paper peels away brings a fresh wave of tears to her eyes. The familiar photograph of Sophia smiles back at her, but instead of wrinkling between her fingers it is now well protected by a picture frame. She trails the tip of her finger over Sophia's face beneath the glass, then across the white roses that frame it, each petal a delicate piece of ceramic.

 

_Thank you, Daryl,_ she breathes, looking up and expecting no less than the nervousness that clings to him.

 

He shrugs his shoulders a little awkwardly. _Ain't a big deal._ It's the first thing he has said in a while, and he is so very wrong. So wrong that her heart clenches at the thought.

 

_It_ is _a big deal,_ she insists, placing the framed picture carefully on the table. He might have given her what once would have been considered a shameful Christmas dinner and a present that technically already belonged to her, but in truth, he gave her so much more than that.

 

Reaching across the table, she curls her fingers around his hand. Briefly, he tenses, looking up at her with slightly widened eyes. _I don't have anything for you,_ she sighs, boldly brushing the pad of her thumb against the back of his hand.

 

The slight and gentle movement causes Daryl to shudder visibly, and drawing such a strong reaction from him with such a small gesture makes Carol's heart burst with pride. _Don't need anything,_ he insists hoarsely, eyes flickering between her own and their hands. A thought ghosts across his face and he swallows deftly. Then, quickly and a little clumsily, he turns his hand palm up and locks her fingers in between his own.

 

Something swells inside of Carol that she hasn't felt in a long time. So faint are her memories that it feels brand new and like a first time all over again. A slight flutter in her stomach, gentle as the flap of a butterfly's wing. The barest hint of a rosy blush on her cheeks. Contentment and excitement mingling inside of her.

 

Without even a flicker of hesitation, Carol stands up, pushing the chair back far enough with her thighs to step around the table. Daryl flinches at the sudden movement, his fingers fidgeting as if he's trying to pull away. But she won’t have it, grasps his hand with as much force as she can without abandoning the gentleness he has maintained so far.

 

Slowly, she steps towards him, unable to fight the small smile that curls the corners of her mouth. She tugs a little at his arm and Daryl understands, turning until his knees are facing her. They press slightly into the front of her thighs, just above her own knees, and the slight pressure sends a jolt of electricity up her spine.

 

She leans down towards him slowly, feathering her fingers against his as to not scare him away. And when her lips press against his cheek once more, it's different than earlier. It's a delicate brush, more like a real kiss. She lingers, allows her eyes to flutter shut, taking a deep breath. Daryl hums quietly in the back of his throat when she exhales, her breath warm and ghosting over his jaw and neck. The sound is exhilarating and she doesn't want to pull away.

 

But leaning forward like this is quickly becoming uncomfortable on her back and with a sigh she begins to raise up. It is then that a warm, large hand finds the curve of her waist and she freezes. Turning her head ever so slightly, they are now face to face, no more than a few inches between them.

 

He doesn't look away this time.

 

It hits her like a freight train when she realizes just how much she craves his touch - for almost twenty years, most physical contact has only brought her pain. But what she feels now is far from pain. What she feels at night when Daryl sleeps at the far end of the bed is an ache. Remembering how sheltered and warm she felt out on the road with his arms around her. How flushed she'd been when she'd nearly kissed him the other day.

 

Fear is inevitable as it creeps into her soul, accompanied by too many bad memories. But Daryl's thumb traces gentle circles on her thrumming pulse point, and she fights the ghosts of the past with all the strength she has left.

 

Despite holding her gaze, Daryl looks terrified. Cornered and uncomfortable if not for his gentle touch and the slight tug of his hand on her waist when he pulls her a little closer. Not for the first time, Carol wonders what his story is. He seems too shy for someone so capable and blunt. Too afraid for someone as tough as he has shown to be.

 

She thinks she knows. In his eyes, deep blue and slowly darkening now, she recognizes a familiar face. Sophia. Her little girl who had been just as shy, just as afraid - all her life.

 

Daryl's fingers dig a little into the flesh of her stomach, his legs parting as if on instinct as she steps between them. His eyes begin to waver now, his confidence fading.

 

She wants to cross the distance between them badly. But she doesn't. Instead, she nods softly, just a slight movement accompanied by an encouraging smile. It says _I want to_ without words and he seems to understand when his eyes widen in surprise.

 

He moves slowly then, tilting his head forward and up. Meeting him halfway, Carol closes her eyes, sighs almost inaudibly when he presses his lips to the corner of her mouth just like she had done. He lingers, fingers grasping hers still.

 

Opening her eyes, Carol nearly falters under the awe she discovers in his eyes, pure and raw. The tip of her nose nudges against his and his mouth quirks up into something like a smile.

 

 

 

It is all they are ready for. But that night when they go to bed, Carol finds herself in the warm embrace of Daryl’s arms again, his chest pressed against her back. When she whispers _goodnight_ , he responds with a kiss to the base of her neck, and she falls asleep with a smile on her lips and a lightness in her chest she has long thought lost.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes up to sunbeams tickling his face, everything is warm and soft. Familiar even. There's no point in trying to deny that he has missed waking up like this with Carol tucked against him. Her hand curled into his. Curls of her hair soft against his cheek.

 

Before he even opens his eyes, Daryl takes a deep breath, cherishing the scent of her.

 

He wanted to kiss her last night. Badly. It's been so long since he has been with someone and even longer since he _wanted_ to be with someone. It's an unfamiliar need.

 

Against him, Carol begins to stir, a small noise escaping her throat that tugs at the corners of his mouth. She stretches out the kinks in her legs, his own knee somehow lodged between her thighs.

 

_Morning,_ she breathes hoarsely when he adjusts his leg. Her fingers begin to draw patterns on his calloused palm, ghosting all the way to his wrist and along the length of his lower arm. When she reaches the crease of his elbow, goosebumps erupt all over the delicate skin and he shivers.

 

Against his better judgment, he replies wordlessly, pressing his lips to the point below her ear. It's a chaste brush of lips but it draws a shudder from her that is more than rewarding.

 

When Carol shifts a moment later he fears he might have overstepped his boundaries - this thing between them new and fragile and a hell of a lot scarier than any walkers that have come their way. He moves to back away but Carol holds on to his hand as she turns around to face him. She is still just as close, only now they are face to face.

 

The morning sunlight casts shadows on her sleepy face and she blinks a few times, eyes still adjusting to the light. The room still smells a little of the candles they'd blown out last night, but he can also smell the lotion she uses before bed (a piece of normalcy, he supposes) and something else linger underneath that he has come to recognize as solely her own.

 

A smile plays at the corners of her mouth, just a hint. Rosy lips curling upwards as the tip of her nose nudges against his. His heart beats a furious and bruising rhythm against his ribs as his blood begins to boil, heat rushing to his face for a moment. But then Carol shifts again, an innocent move to make herself more comfortable, and her hips press flush against his own. It's too much, his blood rushing south almost instantly.

 

Memories of that day by the river flash through his mind without mercy. Her bare skin shimmering in the sunlight, the silver of her hair almost blinding. The touch of his hand around himself. The high of his release mingled with the shame of thinking about her in this way.

 

He has not touched himself since then, too ashamed of himself. But as her hipbone nudges against his through the thin layers of the sweatpants they are both wearing, that resistance crumbles.

 

Feeling himself harden, he knows she can feel it. There isn't enough space or fabric separating them for her not to. And sure enough, her eyes widen a little and look up at him. But he finds no disgust in them. Quite the opposite, it is something akin to curiosity that twinkles in the pools of blue.

 

Still, he is quick to draw back his hips, determined to put some space between them.

 

But Carol surprises him again, her hand quickly locking into place at his hip, holding him still. Swallowing deftly, he looks into her eyes, unsure what to do or say.

 

_Sorry,_ he murmurs weakly, his voice still hoarse and raspy from sleep. _Can't rea-_

 

A soft finger presses against his parted lips and silences him. Ever so gently, Carol shakes her head, her nose once more nudging against his. She is so close, her breath warm on his skin, and he can almost count her lashes and freckle. It's not quite a surprise anymore when Daryl realizes he'd gladly spend the whole day doing just that.

 

_It's okay,_ she whispers then, dropping her hand between them. She doesn't move to press against him, but her gaze alone is enough to hold him in place.

 

When her eyes flicker down to his lips, Daryl feels a tug deep in his groin, his hips stuttering forward just slightly. He could kiss her now, he realizes. As much as he doesn’t understand why, she seems to want the same thing. Nobody has ever looked at him with quite the same sense of awe and want and curiosity as she does.

 

But he can't quite bring himself to breach the remaining distance. Too vividly does he remember what kisses have been like before. Quick and sloppy. He never initiated them, only ever moved to end them as quickly as he could. They felt too intimate. Something about them unsettled him.

 

He can not imagine anything quick or sloppy with Carol. Quite the opposite, he wants it to last, to be soft. To draw small sounds from her and feel her shudder against him.

 

Perhaps his fear is as evident as his inexperience must be. Carol smiles softly, inching closer. Her lips are so close to his now that he can feel them brush against him every other second. Soft. Warm.

 

_Okay?_ she breathes, a question as much as a reassurance that she wants this too. It is all he can do now to close his eyes, heart pounding, and then she has her lips pressed firmly against his. Completely. Not his cheek, not the corner of his mouth. Carol is _kissing_ him.

 

It's chaste and he barely responds for a moment, too stunned by what is happening. The want and desire he has tried to explain away for months now hits him full force like a tidal wave.

 

Nothing he felt was out of desperation or a lack of option. It was all her all along.

 

Carol pulls back then and he opens his eyes to look at her for just a second before the smile on her lips draws him back in. This kiss is different. Deeper, more languid, and when his hand comes up to rest at the nape of her neck Carol whimpers softly. The sound spurs him on, gives him a sense of confidence he has never known.

 

Nobody ever wanted him like this. Clutching at his shirt and drawing him closer. Tongue tracing the seam of his lips until he granted entrance with a groan. Breathing against him with the sound of his name like a prayer in the air. Moaning quietly at the unsteady touch of his hands.

 

And he never wanted anyone like this either. Trembling when her fingers feather over his thrashing pulse point. Grinding his hips against hers for the slightest bit of friction when she bucks into him. Rasping her name against her plump lips like a parched man begging for a drop of water.

 

Despite their increasingly ragged breathing and the uneven movements of their hips, it's still chaste. Warm and soft and everything he never dared imagining. Like a sweet Sunday morning with nowhere to be and nothing to do.

 

Every day can be like that now, Daryl realizes as Carol parts and buries her face against his neck. Soft lips press against the side of his neck. Clever fingers splay over his stomach.

 

He doesn't move to push things further. Doesn't suck at the exposed pale skin of her collarbone. Doesn't slip his hand under her shirt to cup the soft weight of her bare breasts (he knows she isn't wearing a bra, can feel the peaks of her breasts stiff and straining against his chest). Doesn't turn her into her back and slip into the cradle of her thighs to rock against her.

 

Part of it is because he is scared out of his mind. This is the furthest he has ever been out of his comfort zone. Another part is concern for her after her confession the other day. He can't imagine what she might have suffered through in the years of her marriage. He knows his fair share of pain, but at least his old man never touched him like this. If he's looking for thing to be grateful for, that is one.

 

He can not really tell if she is moving out of her comfort zone. She seems content, humming against his throat, nudging her nose against his earlobe. He might even fall asleep again like this, Daryl wonders to himself.

 

She doesn't seem afraid to him.

 

Almost soothingly, he runs his hand up and down the length of her spine, feeling each ridge under the thin cotton of her shirt. In response Carol arches her back, her core grinding against his erection with more force than before.

 

Daryl grunts against her hair, grabbing her waist. It's a firm grip and he almost instantly loosens it, but Carol doesn't seem to mind. Quite the opposite, she huffs frustratedly against his throat before pressing a kiss to his pulse point, her hand sneaking under his shirt.

 

Daryl tenses a little when her fingers ghost over his abdomen, the muscles there contracting and his cock hardening even more. If she keeps going, he won't be able to ignore it for much longer.

 

Squeezing his eyes shut, he allows her to explore for a while, the slightly calloused palm of her hand slowly smoothing over his stomach and towards his chest. Her thumb just barely grazes a nipple as she splays her hand over his heart and he loses some of his willpower, tilting his head until he can mouth at her neck. She is quick to make room for his caresses, breathing his name.

 

It's perfect for a moment longer when she seeks out his lips for a nearly searing kiss, and he responds by a stutter of his hips that seems to catch her _just right_. She moans, a deep sound that tears from her throat and sends shivers down his spine and then she grabs for him to lock him in place.

 

The second her hand curls around his back they both pull out of the kiss and freeze.

 

Every deeply rooted instinct inside of him tells him to run. To push her away and rush out of the bed. But he can't. He is petrified, her blue eyes so soft, and the hand that he knows can feel the ridges of his scars is gentle, caring. It doesn't hurt, but he still can barely breathe.

 

She must understand because she is quick to move her hand away. But there is no disgust to the retreat. She feathers her hand along the angry line of one scar before resting on his ribs where his skin is smooth. The contact remains.

 

His jaw is tense, eyes fixed on a point below her head. Then, tenderly, her lips find his once more. Just a featherlight brush but it calms him. Soothes him.

 

The trust he feels in her is staggering and almost overwhelming. But he can't stand to feel her hands on the carnage that maps out across his back. Not yet, maybe never.

 

He sighs into the kiss then, eyes drifting shut. Shame lingers in the shadows, familiar and sharp-teethed, just waiting to overwhelm him and ruin this moment. He can already feel himself softening, the blazing need and suppressed desire from a moment ago evaporating. Carol, however, doesn't allow anger to fester in the wound. Instead, she reaches for the hand he still has curled around her waist and tugs it lower. For a moment, he is confused, distracted even by the swell of her hip.

 

But then she guides his hand under her shirt, soft skin bared to his rough and nervous touch. He looks down at her questioningly, but her face is marked by determination.

 

Panic bubbles inside of him when she guides his hand up higher, across her flat stomach and the ridges of her ribs. No way she would-

 

And then he feels it. Carol draws her hand away when his thumb grazes over a circular knot of flesh just below her breast. He can even feel the swell of her breast against his fingertips, but it is the last thing on his mind.

 

Her eyes drift shut and her lips purse, the gesture clearly taking a toll on her. Below his index finger, Daryl finds another scar, and it is a sad and aching certainty that there must be more. But he grants her the same mercy she had, moving his hand away instead of searching for more. He rests it at her wast, the skin amazingly soft as he draws circles with his fingertips. Phantom stories and wordless promises he paints into the pale canvas of her skin.

 

Just as her eyes drift open again he presses a kiss to her forehead, nudges his nose against her hairline. She understands and moves closer when he tucks her against him.

 

Neither of them say a word, their breathing as calm as the touch of their hands.

 

 

 

When Daryl wakes up again, the sun is high in the sky, Carol draped across him, her heart beating against his.

 

Making up for every Sunday morning he never had.

 

* * *

 

The small apothecary is cramped and smells of cedarwood and scented oils, the type of place torn from an old novel. It is bitterly cold, the wind howling outside, rattling the shutters and creeping through every tiny fracture in the old wall.

 

Carol rubs her gloved hands as she roams through one of the aisles, listening faintly as Daryl stuffs plastic pill bottles into the bag he brought.

 

Weeks ago when they first arrived, they'd foolishly only taken a few essentials from the apothecary.

 

But now the cut on Daryl's left palm is red and angry and his skin a little too pale. Carol had insisted they make the short trip for two days now but he'd refused. The icy rain storm outside was what kept them inside, but when she woke this morning and saw Daryl’s face contorted in pain during the two seconds it took him to figure out she was awake, she'd threatened to go on her own.

 

It was a stupid accident fixing one of the shutters on their house. A rusty nail that stuck out. His hand that slipped.

 

She still remembers the brief second she thought he'd been bit when he came back inside cursing an clutching his bleeding hand. Her heart frozen mid-beat. Dread washing over her like the icy rain outside.

 

She sighs at the memory, stopping to look at a row of green glass bottles. Some homeopathic remedy against menstrual cramps. Half-shrugging to herself, she grabs a few bottles and carefully places them into her own bag.

 

Just as she is about to turn around and head back to the back of the store where Daryl has broken the chain locking away the prescription drugs, something else catches her attention.

 

Heat flushes her cheeks and she kneels down quickly, not needing Daryl to spot her all flustered over the low shelves.

 

The row of condom boxes almost mock her, brightly colored and seemingly untouched. Not a single one out of place. Suddenly, her hands begin to turn clammy inside of her gloves.

 

Her fingers itch to grab a box, she can't deny that. She still feels warmth pooling low in her belly at the memories of that night five days ago. The morning that followed. Nothing except for a few shy kisses have happened since then (nights spent curled around one another, stealing warmth), but she knows she isn't opposed to changing that.

 

Only, she isn't sure either of them are ready to take that step. She had not been scared. Quite the opposite, she'd been eager to feel more of him, the deeply rooted need surprising her more than him. Sharp-edged memories of Ed kept trying to cut into her mind but Daryl urged them away with every unsteady kiss and fluttering touch. And _God_ had he felt good.

 

But she doesn't know if she is ready for more. To feel and touch more of him. (it's treacherous how much she has thought about it though. his tongue on her neck. his fingers on her breast. calloused palms on her thighs. his hard length deep inside her.)

 

Carol shudders a little, shaking off her stray thoughts.

 

She can still feel the scars under her fingertips. The answer to every question she had about him. The confirmation of every fear. A deep sadness washes over her whenever she thinks about it - about what he must have suffered. The same sense of grief she feels for herself for the life she might have lived so differently.

 

But he has not pushed her away, although she almost expected him to. He stopped being a stranger a long time ago and she _knows_ him. There was no point when he suddenly became familiar to her. And she doesn't dwell on trying to pinpoint it now.

 

Deciding to just tale a leap of faith and maybe encourage herself, Carol grabs one of the boxes and stuffs it a little noisily into her bag. Standing up, she sees Daryl approaching, holding his injured hand in front of his chest, the bandage in need of changing.

 

_What'ya doin' there?_ he asks, his voice tender.

 

Carol feels her cheeks flush. _Nothing,_ she lies, fingers drumming a little nervously against her thigh. She takes a few steps out of the aisle, not very keen on Daryl catching a glimpse of where she just grabbed something from.

 

Meeting him halfway, she leans up on her toes and kisses him. A part of her still tenses and expects him to lash out at her for being so bold. As Ed would have done. But it's been so long since she actually _wanted_ to kiss Ed that she can't even remember, and she wants to kiss Daryl now. All the time.

 

He responds shyly and when she pulls away, his high cheekbones are flushed a little.

 

It almost scares her how easy it is to be with him. How right it feels. It's rewarding, too, in away. He responds in ways Ed never has and that makes her feel wanted. There is still so much fear to overcome, so much doubt. But she chooses to just allow this new thing to guide her a little. After all, she doesn’t have much to lose.

 

_Come on, let's go home,_ she says quietly but with a smile, reaching for his good hand. His eyes widen a little in surprise at her words, but then he nods, the corners of his mouth twitching.

 

They are so alike, she wonders as they head for the door. All those months ago when they first stumbled into each other's lives, she would have laughed at the mere idea of anything connecting them beyond the struggles of this world.

 

With his hand curled around hers, all that doubt fades.


	7. start.

Daryl's thighs are warm where they bracket her hips, his knees pressing slightly into her ribcage. Two pairs of hands rest intertwined against her stomach, calloused fingers drawing fantastical and soothing patterns into softer skin.

 

The flames lick the brick of the fireplace like waves at the shore, cracking and fizzing every once in a while. They fill the room with a comforting sort of warmth that hugs you and settles deep in your bones. The orange light barely illuminates the space and even in that semi-darkness, Carol keeps her eyes closed. Her head rests against Daryl's chest, his chin pressed to the top of her head.

 

His chest rises and falls evenly with each breath and it almost physically hurts her to break the serenity of the moment. But in this golden moment of solitude, a nagging, ever present though will leave her no rest.

 

_Do you think there are still other people out there?_ she asks, her voice already thick with sleep. It's a question that has been running circles in her mind for months, and yet she never found the courage to ask. It wasn't Daryl's reaction she feared but rather the answer she might not be ready for. Only another assumption, and yet so final.

 

For a moment, Daryl is quiet. _Gotta be,_ he mutters, seemingly lost in thought for a heartbeat until he continues. _Can't just be the two of us._

 

The words linger between them and Carol's eyes flutter open. They are quick to adjust to the gentle light, and she turns to face him. His eyes are full of question, and her own mind quickly draws the image in her head. A simple one because it has felt like this for months - that the world, their world, consists of only them.

 

_Would you mind?_ she whispers, a little surprised by the quiver in her voice. Daryl's features soften, a sight she feels not many people have been granted in his lifetime, and it fills her with pride and a gentle sense of joy that he gives it all to her so freely.

 

_Nah._ He smiles - just the barest lift at the corners of his mouth, and she meets him halfway when he leans in to kiss her. It's chaste and shy and has her stomach fluttering.

 

She sighs when he pulls away - always too quickly, always with hesitation and doubt so evident in his fleeting gaze and tinted cheeks. His breath is warm against her, but a very real cold settles in the pit of her stomach. _It's a scary thought, though,_ she admits, turning her aching neck again to now rest her cheek above Daryl's heart. _Being all alone._

 

There is a certain morbid beauty to the idea of only the two of them left in such a bitterly cold and rough, blood-stained world. Two lost souls that were united at the end of all things. Like a sad piece of poetry, it fills Carol with dread and awe alike.

 

_Ain't as scary as the other option,_ Daryl says quietly and with bitterness in his voice. He draws one hand away from her own, trailing it up the length of her arm. _That there are more people like them bastards we ran into._ Memories flash through her mind like knifes when Daryl's fingers ghost over the scar on her neck. Jagged and angry. _World like this brings out the worst in people._

 

He sounds so dreadfully certain of it. And deep down, Carol knows he is right. This world has no more room for gentleness and innocence. Not for long. Like a fly, it would be squashed sooner rather than later. The flame of hope that comes hand in hand with kindness is quick to be smothered.

 

_It didn't bring out the worst in you,_ Carol reassures him, reaching up to curl her fingers around his wrist. Beneath her thumb, his pulse point drums.

 

Daryl grunts, a poor excuse for laughter. His next words, however, are void of all humor. _Was already an asshole before it all went to shit._

 

His self-esteem is a crumbling, frail little thing and it hurts to hear him talk like that, to feel him tense in their embrace. She can sense it whenever he touches her, no matter how chaste or brave. Some days, she can almost taste it in his kiss.

 

_You saved me,_ she says with determination, looking up at him. _You didn't have to._ The look he offers in return is a question as much as a token of gratitude. He doesn't reply, but some of the grizzly doubt that plagues him seems to lift off his shoulders.

 

He brushes his chapped but warm lips against her forehead, running a finger through the wispy curls of her hair. Last night, all curled around each other, he'd called it fairy hair, flushing so furiously and hiding his face in the pillow when she giggled. But even then she'd shyly kissed away all doubt.

 

It's all new to her to fall asleep with a smile on her lips and a warm body to curl up against without fear. And judging by the way Daryl clutches her to him and breathes into the crook of her neck, how deeply he sleeps lately, she knows it's just as brand new for him.

 

She listens to the cracking of the fire and the steady rhythm of Daryl’s heartbeat as she thinks about their conversation. About other people, phantoms that must have suffered more or less than them, must have witnesses all the same and yet such different horrors.

 

_Do you think there's a cure?_ Her question carries on a sigh, heavy with all the weight of the answers they will probably never receive. _Somewhere in the world._ It's not hard to admit to herself that she has thought about it – excessively albeit in quiet, private corners of her mind. Far off places with white beaches and palm tress, richly colored flowers and high mountain slopes, vast riverbanks and twinkling cities in the dead of night, small towns asleep in a time loop with their white fences and blue shutters. A good place, somewhere, where people are safe and... not sick. A place where life went on the way it always did. But if there is such a place, wouldn't someone have come by now? To claim back the rest of the world?

 

Daryl shrugs slightly, the movement shifting her weight and she curls her hands around his neck to steady herself. _Don't think there's enough people left for that ta make a difference._ His words echo in her mind, tears beginning to brim in her eyes – tears she furiously blinks away. Is this really it? The end of mankind? Is it too late for a cure? If it is, then it's not nearly as graceful or grand as humanity always imagined it.

 

_So you think this is it?_ she whispers in horror, pulling herself up against Daryl. _The end?_

 

He looks her in the eyes for a moment, deep blue meeting a lighter shade, and then he gives her one brisk nod. Fear shudders through her like a cold draft, and she buries her head in the crook of his neck. His hand splays over her back, running up and down the ridges of her spine. It's soothing and warm and just about enough to vanquish all fear.

 

Softly, she kisses the side of his neck, a slight stubble covering his tanned skin. _I'm glad you found me,_ she breathes, lips curling up into a shy smile when she feels his entire strong body shudder.

 

* * *

 

Goosebumps erupt all over his skin as Daryl makes his way down the hall, the bitter cold of winter trapped in the dark room. After all these weeks, he no longer needs light to find his way from the bathroom to the bedroom.

 

His hair is still damp, an occasional droplet falling from the tip of an outgrowing strand. He'd scrubbed himself clean with water they heated over the fire. Lukewarm at best but so much better than the icy water they had to put up with on the road. They have to use salt water though, the one thing they have a never ending supply of, and after weeks and weeks, his skin is beginning to feel a little dry. But so far, he has not resorted to smothering himself in lotion as Carol does. After her washes, she usually climbs into bed with him smelling of strawberries or roses, pineapple or jasmine - whatever she pulled out of their stash of lotions and soap that day.

 

It is a comfort and a luxury he for so long believed would never be possible again. To close his eyes for a few precious minutes, to let his guard down, to let the tension in his every muscle ease.

 

A warm glow shines through the crack between the bedroom door and the floor, just enough to guide his way should he need the help. His bare feet make no sound against the wooden floor, and he is quiet when he opens the door. Some nights, Carol falls asleep almost instantly - usually nights that follow those interrupted and cut short by nightmares. She never talks about what haunts her in her dreams, but he has a good idea. Instead of pushing her for an answer, though, he holds her when she wakes. Trembling and shedding silent tears.

 

But Carol is far from asleep now, he notices with mild surprise as he steps into the welcoming warmth of the bedroom. Quickly shutting the door behind him as to not let too much of the cold seep into the room, Daryl doesn't tear his eyes away from Carol.

 

She is perched on the wide window sill, the curtain hugging her frame, legs dangling in the air. Her bare feet just barely graze the ground, her arms are wrapped around herself. In the dim light of the fire and the silver glow of the moon outside the window, Daryl can only make out her silhouette. Graceful and slender. Her profile sharp and soft at the same time.

 

It reminds him so much of that day in Atlanta. Her silhouette against the large window, the city beyond flickering and fighting for a last dying breath before succumbing to darkness. Now, instead of lonely skyscrapers, nothing but the starry night sky serves as her backdrop, illuminated by the moon rather than the harsh light of overhead helicopters. Her hair has grown out, razor sharp and cropped that day, now wispy and gentle. The contrast is stark, Daryl notes as he slowly steps over towards her. It's easy to see how much they have both changed.

 

He'd been so filled with anger all his life, with remorse and shame. Now, it's all softened around the rough edges, a light glowing inside of him that's only visible because Carol trusted in him, because she scraped away the thick layers of concrete he'd erected around himself from childhood days. She isn't the same, either. No more tremors run through her, no more anxious shivers. Most days, she's steadfast against the dark night.

 

The thin strap of her tank top reveals a milky white shoulder dotted in freckles, fading now that the sun barely kisses them. Daryl's heart drums nervously against his ribs as he steps up behind her, close enough to let her feel his warmth, and leans down to press a kiss there. It still costs him all his courage to touch her, to look into her eyes, to open himself up. Each time, he waits for her to turn him down, to turn away in disgust like everyone else has all his life. But she never does.

 

Instead, she turns and offers him a radiant yet fleeting smile that lights up her face more than the moon. His own gaze flickers outside, the silver light reflecting on the dark surface of the ocean. Waves crest against the shore only a short distance away, the dark water an extension of the sky. Infinity at their fingertips.

 

_Ya look like ya doin' too much thinkin',_ he murmurs against her shoulder, propping his chin there. From his peripheral vision, he can see that same smile, almost like the flicker of a dying light bulb. Her arms move to grasp his, pulling them around herself until he feels her back against his chest and her soft, flat belly beneath his forearms. _What'ya thinkin' about?_

 

He knows she has something on her mind, recognizes the expression on her face. After so long, he can read her so much easier. Something clouds her mind and steals the sparkle from her eyes.

 

_Sophia,_ Carol breathes eventually, the sound of her little girl's name fading into a long and heavy pause. A sense of sadness fills the room, and Daryl feels a fraction of her weariness in his bones. _She would have loved it here. We took her to the beach once, she was still so little. But she was so happy._

 

It's one of these moments again that she shares with him, memories he has no access to. It makes him feel like an outsider. Far away.

 

A weird and unfamiliar sense of grief overwhelms him as his gaze strays from Carol's quiet expression to the image of her little girl on the bedside table. Grief for a child he never even met. Never in his life did he even consider the possibility of becoming a father. Having children was a ridiculous wish, someone else's dream. But in this moment as Carol leans back into his embrace, he is overwhelmed by the longing that Sophia had been his.

 

_This place, she'd have loved it._ The whisper of a smile touches Carol's lips, a marvelous sight.

 

_'m sorry we couldn't find her._ He remembers those empty promises he made back in Atlanta. Never once believing them himself, he'd still given her false hope. The guilt over it has never really faded, even though he knows why he did it. Not out of malice, but because he'd tried to save Carol's life. A cruel way to keep up her spirit until they could leave the fallen city behind.

 

Again, Carol falls silent and he knows that she weighs her next words on her heart. His thumb draws circles into her palm, the wispy curls of her hair tickling his face. It could be so perfect.

 

_I just wish I'd know,_ she says plainly, her voice almost vacant. _It's like I'm chasing a ghost, trying to hold on to her._

 

He understands all too well what she means by that. A similar feeling has buried itself in his own mind where Merle is concerned. He has become a shadow end nothing but a memory - no more than a _maybe_. Daryl feels the same as Carol, would rather know for sure that his brother - his only family - is dead rather than spending the quiet moments wondering if he's still out there. If he thinks Daryl left him behind. In his own dreams, Daryl has imagined all the worst.

 

They have felt haunted for too long.

 

Holding Carol tighter to him, Daryl presses his lips below her ear, feeling her shiver against him. _There ain't no ghosts,_ he whispers.

 

Carol laughs softly, barely more than a giggle. It makes sense, after all. With the Dead roaming the Earth, who is to say ghost aren't real?

 

_Who knows?_ Daryl feels himself smiling at her brighter expression, muscles that have been unused most of his life straining. But her laughter fades after a moment, her eyes sobering. Then she is leaning down and kissing him before he even has the chance to take a breath. She does this often, take him by surprise.

 

Nothing about the kiss is chaste, Daryl realizes with a start when her tongue traces the seam of his lips and he willingly grants her entrance. Small noises sound between them, delicate whimpers and content sighs.

 

His heart pounds when Carol worms herself out of their embrace long enough to turn on the windowsill, pulling him between her parted legs. The moment he presses against her, they both pull away with a gasp.

 

Moving back just enough to look at Carol, Daryl is surprised to see the gentle smile on her lips. She gives him a small nod that sends a shiver down his spine, and then he is lost when she sifts her fingers through his hair to pull him into another kiss.

 

 

 

He lowers her to the bed so gently and so carefully that she wants to weep. For the first time in her life, she understands what it means to associate intimacy with security. With Daryl's arms around her and his lips feathering kisses down her throat as she sinks into the soft mattress, she feels like she is wrapped up in warm beams of light.

 

He is so tender with her, so shy. And while she knows it is what they both need in this moment, she hopes it won't be like this forever. Because under all the layers of affection, there is undeniable lust that trembles each time he kisses her with a little more force or when his hands – calloused and warm – find a sliver of bare skin at night. In those precious moments when she feels him hard against the small of her back or the jut of her hipbone before he pulls away, an apology ready on his lips.

 

So far, she has let him pull away. But now when he settles in the cradle of her thighs and presses against her core through nothing but their thin sleepwear, neither of them is willing to break apart.

 

She meant it when she said that Sophia's memory haunts her like a ghost, but all that fades now from a raging fire to simmering embers as Daryl kisses down her neck and her collarbones, nervous hands around her waist.

 

_Do ya... Daryl_ mumbles against her shoulder, and she smiles, unseen, tracing her fingers down his sides to the hem of his shirt.

 

_I want to._ He goes slack above her and something like a relieved grunt and a nervous shudder run through him. It's easy enough to distract him for a moment, leaning down for another kiss.

 

He responds eagerly, only faltering when she slips her hands under his shirt. She simply rests them there against his back, gentle pressure against raised scars.

 

But this time he doesn't tense as much and when she moves to push his shirt up his torso, he is quick to help her. Kneeling between her legs, Carol runs her eyes from his disheveled, damp hair to his flushed face, down his chest (littered with tiny scars and a tattoo above his heart). She reaches out with a trembling hand to trail her finger over the pebbled scar below his ribs. The scar that might have saved her life.

 

He swallows deftly, catching her wrist.

 

_Carol,_ he rasps, the moonlight and the fire illuminating the room enough for her to see the fear in his eyes. She smiles then, moving to sit on her knees in front if him, never pulling her arm away from his touch. Instead, she entwines their fingers, keeping them folded between them.

 

_Are you okay?_ she breathes, looking right into his blue eyes. He seems to consider the question for a moment, but then he nods, and perhaps all he needed was a moment to catch his breath.

 

He moves slowly to rid her of her clothes, pushing her shirt over her breasts slowly, peeling her leggings down her legs. It all piles on the ground, forgotten as he maps her out with his warm lips and calloused fingers.

 

His skin feels scorching against her own, and she runs her hand up and down his arms, across his chest and into the soft strands of his hair greedily.

 

Even with nothing to hide her from his gaze but her underwear, Carol doesn't feel naked. A brief wave of shyness washes over her when he drags his eyes along her exposed body, but he wipes away all doubts when his hands find her bare breasts.

 

The moan that tears from her throat when he brushes his thumb over a dusty peak is entirely out of her control. Still, she holds her breath for a moment afterward, nearly frozen. Ed used to hate it when she forced herself to make at least some kind of sound early on in their relationship. Later, he called her names for it, punished her by drawing more _pained_ noises from her throat.

 

But she doesn't want to dwell on the jagged and sharp memories of Ed now, not when Daryl is kissing a trail between her breasts, resting his weight against her.

 

He is hard and pressing against nothing but the thin cotton of her underwear, and yet he makes no move to grind himself against her. Instead, he hovers, just enough to tease her without intent.

 

_Daryl,_ she whines, lifting her hips of the bed and pushing them against his the same second he draws one of her nipples between his lips. His groan vibrates against her sensitive skin and so she does it again, clutching his hips and pulling him flush against him.

 

_We can't,_ Daryl pants against the swell of her breast, one of his hands shyly running down the plane of her stomach until his fingertips trace the top of her underwear.

 

Squirming under his almost tickling touch, Carol smiles down at him. _We can,_ she says quietly, afraid of breaking the spell. Her hand shakes a little when she reaches over to her nightstand, pulling open the drawer and fumbling around the few items inside.

 

She almost bursts out laughing when Daryl's eyes widen the moment she pulls out one of the condoms from the box she took. Wonder and relief are plainly written across his face and then he crawls over her to capture her lips in a searing kiss.

 

Everything is a warm haze after that and she allows herself to be emerged in it. Daryl's flushed cheeks and pleading uncertainty when he pulls her underwear down and she kicks them away, when he trails his fingers up her thighs and to her core. She no longer tries to choke back the sounds that tear from her throat when he pushes his fingers inside of her, gently, slowly, silkily. When he traces all of her like a map.

 

She comes apart beneath him with his name a sigh on her parted lips, marveling at him kneeling between her pale, trembling legs, his skin dancing in the flicker of the firelight, eyes reflecting the silver of the moon.

 

He looks down at her in awe, eyes partially hidden behind his hair. Carol swallows, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. Her heart drums, her palms turn clammy and even in the aftermath of her release she can feel tiny jolts of static running through her veins, exploding there like fireworks.

 

Silently, she reaches for the condom that got lost somewhere between them, her body betraying her when she trembles all over.

 

A warm hand softly encloses her wrist, stilling her attempts to tear open the foil package. _We can wait,_ Daryl raps, crawling over her to kiss her softly. It's a stark contrast to the sensation of her breasts flush against his chest and the hardness of him pressed perfectly against her bare core. She takes it all in, the sweetness of his words. But then she shakes her head, looking up at his dark eyes with newly found determination.

 

_I don't want to wait,_ she whispers, reaching between them to slip her hand over his abdomen and into the waist of his sweatpants. The way his muscles jump at her touch gives her confidence, and despite a nagging voice in the back of her head telling her not to, she curls her hand around him. _Do_ you _want to wait?_

 

Daryl grunts, burying his head in the crook of her neck. The way he thrusts his hips into her hand is nearly desperate, and he doesn't move to stop her when she pushes his pants down his thighs.

 

He kicks them off hastily, blushing when Carol looks down between them, lips parted, a tug low in her abdomen nearing painful when she takes him in. A part of her still expected to be intimidated despite his overwhelming gentleness. But she feels none of that now, merely a sense of excited nervousness.

 

Slowly, she pushes against his chest, and Daryl understands without the need for words. Turning onto his back, he curls his arms around her, pulling her along until her thighs bracket his torso. They both moan softly when she moves against his stomach, slick and impatient, the friction almost unbearable. Carol makes quick work of the packet now, leaning down to press open-mouthed kisses down Daryl’s neck as she reaches between them.

 

The second her hand touches him, Daryl bucks up into her, one hand grasping her hips to pull her against him, the other slipping into her hair. There is a slight roughness to his touch that suits him, she muses, resting her forehead against his collarbone for a moment as she scoots down a bit.

 

The mattress shifts as they adjust, two warm bodies moving in the semi-darkness. Daryl’s eyes remain fixed on her face despite the fact that she can feel the warmth of the firelight illuminating her bare breasts and stomach. Seeking out one of his hands, their fingers entwine easily, like an ancient dance.

 

She can feel him pressing against her, and yet Daryl makes no move to thrust up into her. It would be easy for him, and she doesn't miss the tension in his body from holding back. For a moment, though, she cherishes this, the anticipation. The sensation of _finally_.

 

Then, slowly, she sinks down onto him, allowing her body to adjust to something that has only brought her pain for so long. Her eyes flutter shut at the sensation, her breathing stuttering. She doesn't waver though, moving until she can't anymore. Flush against him, she releases a long sigh.

 

Her hands are pressed against his chest and she can feel his heart drumming beneath her palm. Looking down, she feels almost shy. But it passes, as does Daryl's hesitance to move. Slowly, she rises back up, sinking down slowly, treasuring each moment for as long as she can. Making new memories. Starting over.

 

Daryl begins to move with her then, his hands mapping out her pale skin, his hips meeting hers, slowly and carefully for a while. They mostly avoid their scars, and Carol understands that they are thinking the same: not to push for more than they are ready to give. Every now and again, his calloused fingers brush over a raised patch of skin, never more than a gentle, fleeting caress before he moves on. Her own hands stay glued to his chest, more to ground herself than for leverage.

 

Soon enough, the slow and languid pace becomes difficult to maintain. The fire that's been simmering inside them both lights up each time he sheaths himself inside her, with every soft moan and whisper of a name. She grinds herself against him each time she sinks down, and he can no longer hold back the force with which he thrusts up into her. The tips of his fingers dig into the soft, pale flesh of her thighs, helping her along.

 

He sits up then, the angle changing so perfectly that Carol nearly cries out. She's grateful for his move, needing so desperately to feel him closer but not quite ready to be trapped under him. His chest is flush with hers now and his lips finds hers in a sloppy kiss that steals the last breath from her lungs.

 

Their pace slows a little, but Daryl's thrusts grow deeper, more determined. One of his hands finds a breast, kneading it before leaning down to nip at the soft flesh. Carol cranes her head back in response, clutching Daryl’s shoulders as she feels her entire body tense.

 

But she knows this will be over before she'll even be close to that edge again. Still, she feels no disappointment, not when Daryl is panting against her neck, fingers digging into her lower back as his thrusts grow erratic.

 

_Carol,_ he groans, sucking the sensitive flesh where neck meets shoulder between his lips. Not enough to bruise, but more than enough to send shivers down her spine and cause her to tense around him. Maybe that was too much, she thinks as Daryl grunts, clutching her to him and thrusting hard. She yelps at the force, eyes fluttering shut.

 

And then it's over.

 

This time, she allows her hands to rest against his back, splayed over his spine and shoulder. He doesn’t flinch, resting his forehead against her shoulder as his breathing slows down. She smiles when he begins to kiss her freckles, a messy pattern that he dedicates his time to. Eventually, though, she pulls him up for a kiss.

 

 

 

She falls asleep that night with Daryl wrapped around her, just like before. But it feels like a new beginning, nonetheless.

 

* * *

Everything becomes easier after that.

 

Winter loses its harshness when he falls asleep with his arms curled around Carol and her face tucked into his chest.

 

Isolation becomes a mere phantom when he wakes to soft lips against his throat and clever hands mapping him out, lithe arms pulling him to her, _inside_ her.

 

The many unanswered questions that plagued him fade when he holds Carol against him by the fire.

 

Long familiar doubts evaporate when she tells him how much he means to her. How grateful she is. How much she _wants_. God, he'll never hear enough of that, whispered hoarsely against sweat-slicked skin.

 

An uncertain future is suddenly full of promise when the first warmth of spring melts ice and sparkles on the ocean surface.

 

Grimness gives way to ease when they walk along the beach with bare feet, the water icy but the sunbeams from above enough to flush their cheeks.

 

Hunger has a new meaning the first time he kisses down her quivering stomach and doesn't stop.

 

Everything has changed.

 

* * *

_Ya didn't go to prom?_ He is admittedly a little surprised by her confession, remembering vividly how most of the girls in his town went mad over prom back in the day.

 

Carol looks up at him from where she's resting her head against his chest, her blue eyes wide and her eyebrows high. _Did_ you _?_ she asks teasingly, and they both know the answer is obvious.

 

They never talk much about the past. Small tidbits scattered here and there. Daryl doesn’t even remember how they ended up talking about high school of all things. He's still distracted by the warm early summer breeze that floods in through the open window, the waves crashing against the shore outside. Carol's smooth skin against his.

 

_Hell, didn't even finish high school,_ he snorts but not without regret. _But why didn't ya go?_

 

When Carol's face turns to stone, he understands. Still, she takes a deep breath, nuzzling herself into his side even further. Crawling under his skin. _Ed was drunk the night before. Let's just say not even make up could have covered it up._

 

Daryl falls quiet, his mind rendering vivid images of what she went through back then. In his own memories, nobody ever gave a damn. So often, all his pain and suffering was plain to see, and yet nobody did a thing. No one cared.

 

_Nobody said anything?_ he asks carefully, weary of opening old wounds that even he can't mend.

 

_He took me on an impromptu trip to the coast,_ Carol sighs, making air quotations before curling her hands around his torso. _And by that I mean he locked me in his dad's hunting cabin for a few days._

 

His hands curl into fists against the ruffled sheets, rage building inside him. But he takes a deep breath, remembering that the bastard is dead and gone. That Carol has witnessed enough violence for one lifetime. _Ya parents?_

 

_They died when I was five._ Her response has the hairs at the base of his skull stand up. Grief washes over him again, sorrow for her own lost childhood. _I grew up with my grandparents. They were old and..._ She hesitates, and her eyes grow distant. _Traditional. They loved Ed. He had them eating out of the palm of his hands._ She sighs, and he runs his hand through her hair, down her neck until she relaxes a little against him

 

_And until that day, he never.... He grabbed me a few times. Said... things._ Shaking her head, Carol blinks rapidly, eyes glistening with tears. _But nothing like that._

 

_Why did ya marry him?_ The question bursts from his mouth before he can stop himself. He knows it's silly, that her marriage probably wasn't her choice. But he never got the chance to ask his mother why she married his father. Why she had his kids, why she didn't run. All his life he wanted to ask. And all his life he's known the answer. Because he didn't run, either.

 

_I wanted to get away from him,_ Carol explains somberly, tracing the tattoo over his heart. _And I could have. I was young, there were no ties._ The pause that follows is so long that Daryl begins to think she wants to drop the subject. He won't push, instead leans down to press a kiss to her forehead. _But I got pregnant,_ she whispers, and he freezes. _So, I married him. He could be nice, when he wanted to be._ There is a bitterness to her last words that he understands too well. But her confession rattles him too much to dwell on his own demons.

 

_What happened to the baby?_ Doing the math in his head isn't that hard. Judging by the photo on the nightstand, her little girl couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteenth years old. And his own high school days lay back so much longer. _Ain't Sophia, right?_

 

He wipes away a stray tear that spills from her eyes. _I lost it._ There is more to the story, but the aching sorrow in her voice stops him from asking. Some pains only dull in silence, he knows.

 

_'m sorry._ He gathers her up in his arms, curls himself around her to hold her close. To prove that he past lays behind them now.

 

She is quiet for a while, but then, slowly, she worms her hand between his body and the sheets, ghosting over his scars. The touch isn't as overwhelming anymore as it was a few months ago. Sometimes, when he's so caught up in her, he can even enjoy her touch there for what it is: soft, gentle, _loving_.

 

_I'm sorry about your father,_ she says, looking up at him as she follows the lashes across his spine.

 

_Old bastard could be nice, too. When he wanted to be._ Old memories flicker in his mind. Some of them happy. All of them soiled. _Taught me how ta hunt. But when he was drunk..._ Soiled and ruined.

 

_Do you think we can ever leave them behind?_

 

He has wondered that all his life. Every time the bastard's belt lashed across his back he wanted to forget. Sometimes, it hurt so much that he did. _They're dead and gone_ , he says bitterly. _But I ain't got a clue._

 

It's almost impossible to imagine ever really letting go of that part of their pasts. No matter how wiped out it is in the grand scheme oft hings, their scars remain. And it's not the physical ones that tie them to it.

 

It's enough for him that he can forget it all for a little while. And it's so much more than he ever dared asking for that he can live with it all now.

 

Carol smiles softly, slipping her leg over his until she is straddling him. He sighs contently, responding eagerly when she kisses him. _We've got each other now,_ she murmurs against his lips, and the words echo in his mind for a longtime.

 

They leave a bittersweet taste in his mouth.

 

How long will it all last?


	8. home.

The storm hits them out of nowhere. Blue skies vanish beneath a thick curtain of near black clouds, sucking all light from the world. Where the morning was warm, the afternoon grows cool, the ever growing wind rattling harshly at the walls of the house.

 

And it only grows worse. Rain bursts from the sky like someone was trying to drain it entirely, drumming violently against the moaning roof, against stirring windows, against aching wood.

 

_It's getting bad,_ Carol whispers, peaking through the curtains. There's too much rain and too little light to make out more than rough shapes; like a blurred oil painting the world is transfigured and fading.

 

Daryl grunts in response, listening with concern as the house around them struggles to stay standing. He didn't see this coming. All his life, he knew to listen to the world around him. Earlier, he could already smell the impending rain in the air, felt the wind picking up and move the clouds towards them.

 

But his senses failed him today, and they are beyond unprepared.

 

_Best get away from them windows,_ he urges Carol, reaching for the crook of her elbow and gently but determinedly steering her away.

 

Her eyes widen a little at his obvious concern. It's still beyond his understanding how much she trusts him, relies on him. If he's calm, then so is she. And to see him so unsettled now seems to dissolve her tightly spun web of poise and ivory strength. Her fingers curl around his wrist, blue eyes filled with a tempest not unlike the one raging outside.

 

They can hear the sea roaring not far away, crashing violently against the shore.

 

_What are we going to do?_ she nearly whimpers, eyes glossy, and for the first time in well over a year, he sees a glimpse of the same woman who nearly faltered in the blazing flames of Atlanta. She is afraid - and rightly so.

 

_Come on,_ he says with determination, tugging her into his side until his arm curls easily around her shoulder (like she belongs there, like it's what they've always done) and leading her towards the unused, windowless laundry room.

 

They will have to weather this storm. Just like any other before it.

 

 

 

For weeks their future on this island has been uncertain. The well has been acting up, their food supply shrinking to the point where their rations have become remarkably small - small enough for hunger to creep back into their daily lives.

 

Without water or food, even the shelter and isolation the island still offers is rendered nearly useless.

 

Still, neither of them have acknowledged the near certainty that they will have to leave the island behind. They cling to it, to the hearty, warm feeling of _home_ that is has provided them for so very long now. Outside, the world will not welcome them back with open arms but with rotting teeth and blood-crusted nails eager to dig into their vulnerable flesh. Cold nights on rough ground, parched lips and rumbling stomachs. Bodies pushed to the very edge of what they can endure.

 

Neither of them were ever foolish enough to believe the idyll would be forever. Nothing lasts anymore (and for them, good things have hardly lasted longer than a heartbeat all their lives). But to truly let go was something they pushed into the furthest corner of their minds, choosing to be oblivious for as long as they still had the time.

 

When they step outside the house the morning after the storm (after a sleepless night curled around each other) the decision has been made for them.

 

Sure, they could try to fix the devastating damage. The shattered glass and uncovered roofs, the dented walls and flooded basements. The clogged well.

 

But it all reads too much like a sign. In the ruins of their home, Carol grabs Daryl’s hand and they make a silent decision, their hearts whispering the same sorrowful tune.

 

 

 

He sighs, the sound swallowed by the wind.

 

_It was a good place,_ he says somberly, watching as Carol's gaze is fixed on the small, wrecked village. A sad and lonely sight, the house on the hill towering like a beacon of simmering hope in the distance. She shifts her weight, the small boat stirring the water beneath her.

 

_It was,_ she agrees, her voice breaking on the verge of tears as salty as the water lapping the white boat (one of the remaining few left unscathed by the storm). Something ghosts across Carol's pale face, a shadow of a thought. _I wish..._ , she begins, barely more than a whisper, but her words fade into silence.

 

Fitting the last of their bags into the boat, Daryl carefully lowers himself into it, balancing his weight as the worn wood sways in the water.

 

_Me, too._ He knows what she couldn't say. Feels the same sense of grief. This place, her, was the closest he ever was to being happy. And the world is tearing it from their grasp. Unwilling to let it all go he reaches for her hand, her fingers cold and stiff in the harsh breeze. Above them, the sky is a deep gray, no longer threatening but the last debris of the storm still clinging to the large canvas.

 

His touch evokes a flickering smile, one that breathes sadness more than joy. When she leans across to kiss him (chastely, but like a promise that this isn't the end) he grasps her hand more tightly.

 

_Let's go,_ she says, warm breath dampening his cheek. All he can do is nod weakly, no other choice left for them to make.

 

Across the horizon, the open road lays ahead of them once more, grim, merciless and without a destination.

 

* * *

 

Her heart ceases to beat for the fraction of a second, soft, rotting fingers reaches for her throat, just barely grazing the already marred skin there.

 

Almost in slow motion her body reacts, arm reaching out and burying her knife in the man's softened skull, half of it torn off already - making it easy. His snarl is silenced instantly and he sags to the ground, no more than a heap of dirty clothes, infested flesh and crusted blood.

 

It was close, too close. But Carol doesn't even have a second to catch her breath or reach up to her neck and check - check if she's still alive or a dead woman walking. Three more walkers are closing in on her, their stench watering her eyes as she lashes out with her knife. Blood trickles from the glistening blade, running down her wrist and soaking into her shirt.

 

Against her shoulder blades, she can feel the wall, coarse bricks that only prove one thing: she's trapped here.

 

_Carol!_ Daryl’s voice is a salvation, echoing from across the small yard. She catches a glimpse of him between the rows of heads that narrow in on her (their prey, backed into a corner with no means of escape).

 

She's glad for one last glimpse of his face. Even though it is disfigured with fear.

 

The herd had crept up on her. She'd stayed outside the rundown brick factory building as Daryl went in to clear it, keeping an always cautious eye on their meager belongings. Neither of them had gotten much sleep since the storm forced them off the island two days ago, and she'd been lost in thought, barely awake enough to keep her eyes open.

 

By the time she heard the first telltale moans it was already too late.

 

It's been month since she saw a walker this close, she realizes as she takes out an elderly woman with yellow teeth. Back when her and Daryl went on a supply run on the mainland. But back then, it had been just one, easy to manage.

 

Now, her arm already aches from movements long forgotten, and sweat pearls on her forehead.

 

Her heart thunders as a bolt shoots through a man's skull, perfectly going through the back of the head and out through the eye. She startles a little at the violent sight, but gathers herself quickly enough to step away from the falling body before it buries her alive.

 

Racing across the yard with a red face, Daryl's cry of her name isn't enough to distract the walkers. It's not enough, and she doesn't know if he's fast enough.

 

 

 

The last walker drops to the ground, a mount of flesh that only makes a quiet thud as it hits the concrete, already covered in guts and blood. Carol sucks a violent breath into her lungs, looking down at her blood-smeared hands, trembling in the air.

 

_Carol!_ Daryl's voice sounds far, far away, like a mere echo of itself. She doesn't say a word, doesn't even flinch when her knife slips from her weak grasp and clatters noisily to the ground.

 

_Y'all right?_ Two warm hands curl around her arms and he is suddenly right there, his face blocking the sun and the sky. _Ya hurt?_

 

Against her, she can feel him shake, veins on fire as adrenaline runs through him. Suddenly, she remembers dead hands and her eyes widen. With a gasp she reaches up, closes her own hands around her throat, nearly choking herself. Leaving bloody fingerprints behind on pale skin.

 

But she feels nothing there, no raw skin. Nothing but the jagged old scar. Relieved, she forces herself to shake her head.

 

It's all Daryl needs to hear and not a second later she finds herself wrapped in his arms, flush against his chest and her head easily falls into place in the crook of his neck. It feels like a lifetime passes until Carol realizes she is crying, her warm tears mingling with the blood and sweat on Daryl's neck.

 

Shuddering, she pulls back, eyes fixed on the shreds of torn flesh that are splattered across Daryl's chest.

 

Almost like a trance she traces her fingers over his heart, feels the reassuring beat beneath.

 

_Carol..._ A delicate but hoarse whisper, and then calloused fingers gently lift her head. _You okay?_

 

It's an entirely different question now, and she feels it rattling her core. Her body no longer knows how to pretend (has never really known how to do that around him) and so her head shakes softly before a _no_ has passed her lips in a trembling whisper.

 

Daryl's eyes have watered, and he sighs before curling an arm around her. _Come 'ere,_ he rasps, and then she's flush against him, his hand cradling the back of her head.

 

Even now, she doesn't feel safe.

 

* * *

 

They both know they need a destination. Somewhere to go, something to drive them forwards. There is no longer any use to drifting, moving from house to house in hope of finding food and a roof to sleep under for one night. It's not enough.

 

Two weeks after they leave the factory behind, locked up in an abandoned fire truck, they make their decision.

 

They'll head towards Washington (because maybe, just maybe, they will find some answers there) and then make their way north towards Canada. In the vast, cold landscape, they might find a place to settle down.

 

Neither of them wants to imagine living like this for the rest of whatever little time they still have left.

 

 

 

They ran out of gas four days ago, and Carol can barely feel the soles of her feet anymore. Pinpricks of pain shoot up her ankles and calves with each step, every pebble and twig scattered along the road jarring and merciless.

 

Her lips are parted, panting as she adjusts the straps of her backpack on her sore shoulders. Around them, the forest towers, casting just enough shadows to shield them from the sun.

 

_Can we stop for a minute?_ she sighs, looking at Daryl by her side.

 

Tension has him strung as tight as a bowstring, and he scans the treeline around them with narrowed lids. Up until now she figured it was worry that kept him up at night, exhaustion that rendered him this silent. But this is something else.

 

_Hmm,_ he mutters, nodding towards a fallen tree stump by the side of the road.

 

With a deep sigh, Carol sinks down on it, mossy and damp but at least she can stretch her legs and ease the unbearable tension in them for a moment.

 

Daryl sits down next to her wordlessly, his thigh pressing against hers. Without hesitation, she accepts his silent offer, leaning into him. Her cheek presses into his shoulder, her eyes fluttering shut.

 

For one brief moment she forgets about all her aches, about her dry tongue and the grumbling of her empty stomach. Just for one brief moment, they are back on the island and all of this is nothing but a bad dream. One she'll wake up from curled around Daryl’s warm body with his lips pressed to her neck.

 

_What's wrong?_ she breathes then, breaking her own spell.

 

Daryl shifts slightly and she knows he is looking down at her. _Hmm?_

 

Craning her neck, Carol meets his gaze, dark circles under his eyes nearly purple, his lips dry and chapped from the heat, blood crusting on his cheek. _You've been so tense for days now._ For a moment she pauses, not missing the beat of reluctance in his eyes. _Something's wrong._

 

He swallows, his throat bopping. The skin there is raw from the sunlight, the dark shadow of a growing beard hiding the angry red hue. _'s just..._ He begins, eyes darting back and forth between her and the road.

 

She gasps when he suddenly moves, burying his head in the crook of her neck. It's intimate in a way they haven't allowed themselves to be since leaving the island. A shudder wrecks her as his warm breath dampens her skin, but the touch of his lips she expected never comes. Instead, he whispers into her ear, so low she can barely make out the words. _Feel like we ain't alone._

 

A rush of cold washes over her, almost like the rain coming down upon them, and fear settles deeply in the marrow of her bones. Like a phantom pain, the scar on her neck throbs, a constant reminder of what the world has become.

 

Perhaps Daryl can feel it because not a second later, his lips press softly against the jagged, raised skin. Like an unspoken promise that it will never happen again. That he won't let say harm come to them.

 

His hand finds hers, fingers falling into place naturally like a key into a lock. Carol doesn't say anything, simply leans into the embrace. But the echo of his words haunt her. _Not alone. Not alone._

 

Not a minute later, the all too familiar shuffling of feet against the undergrowth has them both tensing. Looking up, Carol feels her heart sinking at the side of a young girl, no older than fifteen, moving towards them from between the trees.

 

Sighing, she reaches for the knife strapped to her belt, but Daryl's hand captures her wrist before she even has her fingers curled around the metal. _I got it._

 

He pulls her up to her feet, every bone in her body protesting.

 

The girl snarls at them, her blue shirt stained with blood, most of her blonde hair torn out, leaving a nasty, festering wound on her skull.

 

She must have been someone's little girl once, and Carol feels tears prickling in her eyes. This could have been her own little girl. Her Sophia.

 

Just as Daryl lifts the crossbow, she reaches out, rests a hand on the scorching skin of his exposed forearm.

 

_Let's just go._

 

* * *

 

The inside of the van is stripped blank, pitch black and humid. Daryl can't even make out the silhouette of his hand in the dark, laying flat on his back with nothing but a worn sleeping bag between him and the rough metal floor.

 

The thick air smells of rust and fuel, but the van is useless to them except for the meager shelter it offers. The tires slashed and barely more than a few drops of gas left in the tank, a sorry sight on a back road somewhere in the middle of nowhere.

 

Even in the dark, Daryl feels like walls are closing in on him.

 

He has felt like this for days. Followed. Watched. Hearing footsteps that do not belong to walkers, rustling in the woods that are not stirred by the breeze. He has barely let Carol out of his side.

 

Maybe the world is catching up with him, he wonders as he shifts his weight, back and shoulders sore. Maybe he is starting to get paranoid.

 

It is easier to admit how much he misses the comforts of the island. Warm food, soft sheets, clean clothes. And yet, the memories of the islands are quickly tainting. His senses feel less sharp than they were before, all the rough edges that carried him through life softened.

 

The island made them weak.

 

Carol stirs beside him, sighing into the darkness. He knows she wasn't asleep before, remembers the exact pattern of her breathing when she is. But maybe the turmoil in his own mind kept her awake, as well.

 

Her hands reach out for him and before he can whisper her name she has curled herself around him, warm lips seeking out his own.

 

It's slow and deep, languid when she sighs into the kiss. He holds her to him, her leg slipping between his own, his hand seeking the soft skin of her back under the thin cotton of her shirt.

 

He drowns in her, melts as she mouths kisses down his neck, sneaks her hand beneath his shirt to trace patterns across his abdomen, grinds her hips into his until they are both whimpering. Time is a blur with her this close to him, her breath warm against his shoulder when he sucks at the skin just below her ear and palms a soft breast through her shirt.

 

_Daryl,_ she breathes, hips jolting forward. He doesn't even realize what she's doing until he hears the clinking of metal and the shuffling of fabric as Carol pushes her pants over hips.

 

_Carol!_ he chokes, reaching out blindly to catch her wrists as she begins to unbuckle his belt but only bumping into her hip instead. _We can't,_ he pants as she sits up, working his belt free and tugging relentlessly at the rough denim of his jeans. _We ain't got anything._

 

She moves away from him for a moment and Daryl props himself up on his elbows, trying to make out the shape of her in the darkness. Her boots thud against the rusty metal floor when she kicks them off, Daryl's heart rate picking up.

 

A moment of rustling fabric. Then she is there again, running her hands over his stomach, taking his shirt with her, mapping him out.

 

_Please,_ she breathes almost fearfully, straddling him until the warm wetness of her core is slick against his lower abdomen.

 

_Fuck,_ he hisses, hips thrusting into her against his better judgment and all sense of reason evaporates when she curls her fingers into his shirt for leverage and grinds herself against him.

 

They shouldn't. They can't. But still he reaches down to his open pants and pushes them clumsily over his hips just enough to pull himself out. His entire body shudders when he lines himself up with her, one hand running up the length of her arm and neck until he cups her flushed, gleaming cheek.

 

_I need you,_ she whispers, sinking down on him and taking him in without pause.

 

She falls forwards with his name on her lips, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. Stars sparkle in front of his eyes when he squeezes them shut, holding his breath.

 

For a moment , they are both completely still, one whole, at peace. But when Carol starts to move, rising softly only to slowly sink back down, Daryl can almost picture her in the dark. Her parted lips, arched back. The pale softness of her thighs. The sight of her body taking him in. The glistening of her wetness on their skin. Flushed cheeks, heady eyes.

 

It's over too soon, white hot heat pooling at the base of his spine and he jams his hand between them just in time, circling her flesh as she meets his every thrust with a desperate downward grind.

 

He comes with a silent cry of her name as she suddenly clamps down around him, fingers clutching his arms to the point of pain and her teeth scraping along his neck.

 

In the aftermath, they lay flush against each other, their breathing ragged. Daryl feels himself softening inside her, the evidence of the mistake they both know they made truckling down her thighs and onto his abdomen when she shifts and he slips from her.

 

But all she does is curl up against him, and Daryl wraps his arms around her, presses his lips to her temple.

 

Tears prickle in his eyes. _I love ya,_ he rasps for the first time in his life, and it feels like he just tore his own heart from his chest. But Carol takes it with the same gentle grace he has grown so familiar with, her lips curling into a smile against his skin.

 

_I love you, too._

 

* * *

 

The water is cool when she splashes it over her face, feeling crusted blood and dried mud softening, running down the column of her neck.

 

She sighs, dips her hands back into the current, feeling it lap at her stiff fingers soothingly. Daryl grunts quietly where he is kneeling next to her, washing his arms up to his elbows.

 

A soft smile curls her lips and when he spots it, his cheeks flame red.

 

Carol feels oddly at ease for the first time in weeks, listening to the birds in the sky and the gentle rhythm of the river. Looking forward to washing the stench of blood and sweat from her clothes, she reaches into her bag to find a bar of soap.

 

Her fingers freeze around a can of peaches when suddenly the cracking of twigs nearby jolts through the peaceful quiet.

 

Daryl is on his feet instantly, water dripping from his hands as he lifts the crossbow. Reaching for her knife, Carol rises, too.

 

_Hey._

 

The man standing next to one of the large trees has a smile on his face, hands raised.

 

Fear jolts through her body, fingers tight around the metal of her knife, knuckles white. Daryl's words from a few days ago suddenly echo in her memory. _Feel like we ain't alone._

 

The man takes a cautious step towards them, but Daryl responds instantly. _Stay right there!_ he barks, taking a step to the side, nearly blocking Carol's view. She knows the bolt would shoot straight through the stranger's eye if Daryl pulled the trigger now.

 

_I know,_ the man says, still smiling but clearly intimidated. _I get it._

 

_Do ya now?_ Daryl scoffs, the muscles in his arms quivering. Softly, Carol reaches up to rest a hand between his shoulder blades. Some of his tension deflates, and she tears her eyes away from Daryl's grim profile to the man with the, admittedly, kind smile.

 

_My name's Aaron._

 

* * *

 

She feels like she fell into an old memory. The streets of Alexandria are pristine, the large houses in neat rows, lawns kept tidy, flowers blooming on porches adorned with rocking chairs. She can almost smell the scent of freshly baked bread, taste the cool comfort of iced tea.

 

But she also tastes the iron of her own blood, feels large hands curled around her throat, cigarettes burning trough her skin, her own choked screams and pleads. _Ed, don't! Please don't._

 

Everything reminds her of her old neighborhood, the one she left behind almost two years ago when it was crumbling and falling apart, Daryl by her side, a photo of her little girl clutched in her hands as she looked out of the rear view mirror one last time. She can still hear the rush of static on the radio filling her ears.

 

This could have been her golden cage if only they'd had more money. Ed would have fit right in, sitting on a porch with a beer in his hand and making polite conversation while she hid her bruises under floral blouses and cream-colored cardigans.

 

Aaron is still talking as he leads them down the road, his smile genuine and his voice full of passion. He loves this place, and it seeps from every word that passes his lips.

 

_Everybody has a job, something to do, you know? Something to help the community._

 

He'd told them all about this place, about how it grew, the walls they built. It's a near impossible thought to imagine that most people here have never endured the world outside. Like a bubble, threatening to burst, they live here in peace and comfort.

 

By her side, Daryl is tense, his steps brisk. Without the weapons they had to hand in at the gate they both feel naked, she understands, her fingers tapping nervously against the empty sheath strapped to her belt. But for Daryl, she images this must feel different. The untouched streets, the people staring at them curiously from their windows, framed by lacy curtains.

 

He looks out of place, lost, caged in, and without hesitation she reaches for his hand.

 

Aaron stops in front one of the houses, turning on his heels to face them with bright eyes. _I'm sure Deanna's going to find something for you, as well. You'll fit right in._ Daryl scoffs quietly at that and Carol draws her thumb over the back of his hand soothingly.

 

She wants to believe Aaron, wants to trust him and this place. It could be perfect, everything she longs for. Somewhere to settle down. And Aaron, who knows at least to some extant what the world outside is like, seems so certain and confident, so sure that they will find a home here. She's tired of running. But she remembers her fear of losing Daryl, of him fading in a crowd.

 

_Where are you two from, by the way?_ Aaron asks, looking at Daryl for an answer who hasn't spoken since Carol talked him into giving Aaron a chance and he stepped into the RV behind her.

 

He doesn't reply, just stares at Aaron who doesn't falter for a good long while. _Atlanta,_ Carol eventually says, taking a step to the side until she is pressed against Daryl. Silently letting him know that this is okay, that this can be good. _We were in Atlanta when it all started._

 

Aaron turns his attention to her. _That's a long way,_ he states, sounding impressed. Maybe it is an achievement that they made it this far, but thinking about the alternative chills her bones.

 

She nods, offering him a tight-lipped smile.

 

_We took in a small group a few weeks ago, some of them are from Atlanta, too,_ Aaron explains, looking over towards the house to their right when they hear a door opening. A woman is stepping outside, her hair perfectly in place, her shoulders straight. It must be Deanna, Carol thinks.

 

_Small world,_ she muses at Aaron's story, wondering how many people made it out of the city after it fell.

 

Aaron nods. _Getting smaller._

 

Deanna is making her way down her porch steps, and Carol is just about to force herself to smile and make this work (because it's been so long since she has been around other people, and so much longer since she trusted them) when a startled voice behind them interrupts the serene silence and causes her heart to stutter.

 

_Mommy?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's just one chapter left of this story and I am quite nervous about bringing it to an end, to be honest. It's a difficult one to wrap up for me.


	9. the cage.

The first day is numb. A hazy blur of impressions, overwhelming and suffocating all at once.

 

Her little girl is alive. Silently, Daryl watches as Carol gasps her daughter's name, her hand tearing from his. Within a second she has stumbled across the street to the girl standing there with wide eyes. Her strawberry blonde hair longer than on the picture, tied neatly in the back. Her freckled features harsher, aged. Her eyes less youthful.

 

She looks so much like her mother. They fall into each others arms, tears and sobs mingling.

 

She is still alive. She was alive all this time. _All this time..._

 

Her voice is frail and her eyes bright but still she speaks with fervor beyond her age as the woman named Deanna leads them inside her house. The horrors this little girl endured sound even more terrifying told from her innocent lips. That her father took her to Atlanta, the roads jammed as the city was bombed. Carol curls her fingers around her daughter's as the girl recalls the sky ablaze, fondly recalls the people who gathered in the wake of the destruction to form a small camp of survivors.

 

Daryl shudders at the thought that they must have missed them only by hours when they rushed out of the city, past burned car wrecks and torn bodies. They'd been _so_ close and yet so far.

 

_Dad died. Walkers got him at camp._ Her pale face wavers, almost like a ghost haunted it for a brief moment, and Carol sucks in a shuddering breath, pulling her daughter into a sweet embrace.

 

Like an outsider, Daryl watches, perched on the edge of a pristine and too soft couch.

 

A weight seems to lift off Carol's shoulders then, invisible until now. Her husband is gone, and with the clarity of that, his last shackles on her finally break off.

 

 

 

Deanna gives them time, but eventually, the woman with the stiff haircut and the sickly sweet smile sits down across from them. A camera flickering over her shoulder. Carol doesn't stray from Sophia's side and the space between him and them, while only two feet at the most, seems to stretch on. Everything in this house mocks him. From the perfectly placed cushions to the neatly rowed books. Through the windows he can see the perfect lawns and picturesque houses.

 

He has stepped foot into a house like this before where everything was accurate and pristine, spotless. Carol's house, a dusty memory by now. It had been much like this, perfect but for the horrors hidden under porcelain and silk.

 

Deanna asks questions, a lot of them. Listens as Carol recounts most of their journey. Answers in his stead when he fidgets with the knee of his torn and stained pants, eager to get out. To grab Carol and Sophia and run from this place as fast as possible.

 

It's a circus, and he's not about to become another attraction.

 

 

 

She gives them a house. A whole fucking house with a big porch and shutters and Aaron gives them a big smile when he leads them there. Tells them to settle in as if they'd just moved to a new neighborhood with their five kids and mini van.

 

Sophia stays with them, tells her mother that she usually lives with two women named Maggie and Michonne and a kid named Carl. Daryl says nothing, checks the house room for room like he usually would, only now he doesn't have anything to defend himself with.

 

He lays awake in his dirty clothes on clean white sheets an hour later, staring up at the moonlight on the ceiling. Sophia and Carol have fallen quiet in the room next door, and he wonders if they fell asleep. It's a thought that fills him with both an unfamiliar sense of warmth as well as a painful tug in his chest.

 

This is Sophia's home. He is not sure it can ever be his.

 

The slight creak of the floorboards outside the room has him tensing, every muscle in his body going rigid. But he eases a little when the doorknob turns and Carol's head peaks in through the crack, a hint of a smile on her lips.

 

_Thought you'd be awake,_ she whispers, slipping into the room lithely. She has changed into a pair of soft-looking pajamas, her silver hair glowing in the moonlight - and if he didn't feel so naked and exposed he might allow himself to imagine them back on the island fr a brief moment.

 

The mattress dips ever so slightly when she sits down, a sigh escaping her as she rests next to him on her side, facing him. He swallows, not quite ready to look at her. Instead, he waits.

 

She doesn't say anything for a good long while, but then she shifts, fabric rusting as she moves closer, and then her lips press against the corner of his mouth in a chaste kiss. _Thank you,_ she breathes, the scent of minty toothpaste mingling with some flowery soap. Both have become uncommon after just a few short weeks back on the road, and it only makes him wonder how badly he must reek. Carol, however, doesn't seem bothered by it, nuzzling her face into his neck.

 

_For what?_ he chokes, hands balling into fists by his sides, the knuckles of his right hand grazing Carol's stomach. She shivers slightly - she's so ticklish and he almost smiles at the thought.

 

_We found her,_ she whispers, and he can hear the tears in her eyes in every short word. _You kept your promise._

 

He can't explain why her words make him so sad. Maybe it's because he had no part in this - she was the one who insisted on trusting Aaron, after all. Mostly, though, he thinks it's because he never really had hope that Sophia was still alive. From that first day, he'd been sure it was false hope he was giving. That a girl as sweet and innocent as Carol's couldn't make it in a world like this.

 

Now more than ever, he feels like he betrayed Carol. _Didn't think-_ he starts, the words stuck in his throat, a confession lingering on the tip of his tongue.

 

But Carol won't let him break, moves in the dark until she claims his lips in a proper kiss, deep and slow and languid and he sighs against her lips not a second later, hands coming up to cup the back of her neck and wrap his arm around her waist to hold her against him.

 

_I love you._ He can feel the words against his lips more than he can hear them, spoken so delicately that the darkness swallows them almost entirely. Then she is kissing him again before he can say it back, before he can say anything else, and he wonders if she knows that something else is heavy on his mind - that this isn't all as perfect as it might seem at first glance.

 

With a heavy heart, he pulls away from the kiss. Still, he can't bring himself to increase the distance between them, nudging his nose against Carol's and pressing his forehead to hers. He needs her this close, _especially_ now, needs to know she's still here - _his_ Carol. Not the Carol whose life he saved in Atlanta. No, he needs certainty that the woman she grew into is still here, still alive and breathing. That she's not stripped away by all the soap and soft sheets and trimmed lawns.

 

_We stayin' here?_ he asks, cursing himself silently for sounding so grim. And yet, it doesn't really sound like a question in the end, he notices as the words fade into silence.

 

Carol sighs, her hand seeking out his until their fingers lace together. _I can't leave her, Daryl._ No, of course not. He'd never ask her to, would never want her to. He won't ever be the kind of asshole to make her chose, and he's not naive enough to believe that between him and her daughter, her choice would fall in his favor. _And she can't be out there. But..._ Her thumb draws a lazy circle into his palm, her eyes glistening with tears in the moonlight. _Are_ you _staying?_

 

He tenses when he realizes how genuinely afraid she sounds, her voice quivering and her grip on his hand tightening. How can she even doubt him? How can she really believe that he'd leave her behind and run away enough to sound this afraid? To him, she is the only thing that makes surviving this world mean a damn thing. Never once in his pitiful life has he cared more about someone, and he's never felt as... happy.

 

He wants to tell her all that, wants to confess that he'll go wherever the hell she tells him to, that he won't ever just leave her behind; he wonders what his brother would have to say about all that, but Merle isn't here. And he will never know.

 

In an effort to really make her believe him, he tightens his hold, pressing her body flush against his as he leans gently onto his side. He's wrapped around her now, no more space between them. _Ain't gonna leave ya,_ he promises, sealing it with a brief kiss. Carol's lips curl into a smile against his - the best damn feeling in the world.

 

When they part and Daryl allows his eyes to open, Carol is looking at him with wonder, a single tear trailing down her cheek that he swiftly wipes away with the pad of his thumb. _Thank you._

 

He just nods, willing away the ache in his chest, and pulls her into his side.

 

She falls asleep quickly, her ribcage moving evenly with each breath under his touch. But he lays awake all night, watching the dance of the moonlight, listening to the deafening silence.

 

* * *

 

The first week feels like a dream, ripe with comfort - almost too good to be true. But Carol is too happy to spend much time fearing the collapse of this dream, the moment it will inevitably transform into a nightmare.

 

Within the walls of Alexandria, it almost seems like the outside world and all its terrors do not even exist. The new start it promises, that Deanna talks about with so much fervor and determination, seems genuinely possible.

 

It feels different from the island, though. While offering shelter, comfort and the illusion that it exists outside of the gruesome reality of this world, it lacks its isolation. People greet them daily with friendly smiles and kind offers of help. They go about their daily business as if the clocks never stopped turning and perhaps, here, they never did.

 

Carol feels welcome here, and it's almost more than she can take.

 

She keeps close to Sophia, unwilling to separate from her now that the universe brought her back to her. Her little girl has grown so much, the past two years having left their marks. But beneath it all, she is still the same innocent little girl Carol kissed goodbye that day with a weariness in her heart that proved too be all too justified just a few days later.

 

Sophia is eager to introduce her to people. The people she has been with since the start, the many others who joined their group since, and the residents of Alexandria, most of them untouched by the horrors lurking just beyond their walls.

 

She volunteers to help cook for some of the older residents, eager to show Deanna that she is willing to try and fit in, to make this _home_ and be a valuable asset. This is something she knows how to do, something that fits right into this community. Still, she hopes that somewhere along the line something will come up that she truly enjoys, something to fulfill her. But for now, she'll do what necessary to fit in.

 

And after a few times standing behind a working stove and reviving praise for her casserole, she begins to feel like the pieces are falling into place.

 

Watching Daryl suffer in silence, however, keeps most of her joy at bay. He doesn't feel the same, is rigid and tense during the day and restless during the night. She can feel him tossing and turning, watches him as he stares at the wall, his silence growing too loud.

 

 

 

On the morning of their fifth day, she slips into the bathroom as he takes a shower, the steam making it nearly impossible to make out his shape. She slips out of her clothes, not surprised when Daryl - who has surely noticed her presence - doesn't say a word. Just as silently, she slips under the stream, hissing when she feels the water hitting her skin. It's scorching, and she can make out the red patches on Daryl’s already marred skin.

 

Quickly, she adjusts the temperature until the gentle stream of the shower head is pleasantly warm, and then proceeds to wrap her arms around Daryl’s torso, resting her cheek between his shoulder blades. He smells of soap, his skin feels smoother than usual, and she knows he's been in here for a while. Even though she can't see his face, she is certain he is staring holes into the tiled wall. Frozen.

 

With a sigh, she runs her fingers across his stomach, daring to go lower across the muscles of his abdomen. They twitch and contract under her touch and even through the rush of the water she can hear Daryl's sigh. They haven't been intimate since that night in the abandoned truck, and have shared no more than a few kisses here and there since arriving in Alexandria. And they won't be able to go very far right now, either, not without condoms. Carol still feels squirmy inside remembering how foolish they'd been, and she waits with bated breath each day for a sign that they'll have to carry the consequences of their mistake.

 

Yesterday, she spotted a few condom boxes pushed to the furthest edge of a shelf in the pantry, but she didn't think that asking the kind woman named Olivia for those would be quite the first impression she wanted to make. She almost regrets her choice now, though, as she boldly slips her hand further down and curls her fingers around him. A groan vibrates through his chest as she strokes gently, pressing her lips beneath the demon on his back, just shy of one of the angrier scars.

 

_Carol,_ he rasps, his hand reaching out to press flat against the wall as he quickly hardens in her hand. The other hand curls into a white-knuckled fist by his side.

 

Increasing her rhythm, Carol presses herself flush against him, knowing he can feel the drag of her nipples and the softness of her thighs. She ignores the burning low in her belly in favor of giving him this moment. His hips thrust into her hands messily when she tightens her grip, drawing her thumb over him and he comes just a few heartbeats later, all the muscles in his body tensing for a moment as he grunts before they go slack.

 

She hoped in that moment that this would ease some of the tension he carries with him all day, but he still spends all day with a shadow lurking over his shoulder that she doesn't know how to lift.

 

 

 

She wonders why she didn't think of it right away. It was the only solution, really.

 

When she suggests to Deanna that Daryl could make hunting for the community his 'job', she feels like she is finally doing something right by him since they came here. A small part of her worries that doing this behind his back is the wrong way of going about it, but if it helps Deanna finally determine how Daryl can be of value here, then she's willing to take the risk.

 

It's what he loves, being out there, free in an odd sense. She knows he doesn't stare at the walls so much because he's looking for flaws - if there are some, he would have found them by now. No. He looks at them like a trapped animal would look at its cage. Maybe this will make him feel more welcome, less like an outsider. Still, when Deanna agrees with a pleased smile, Carol can't shake the fear that came hand in hand with her determination. Him being out there beyond the walls, away from her - it sends chills down her spine.

 

He smiles when she tells him what she did.

 

 

 

_I wanted to thank you._ Her fingers are curled around a glass of juice, the porch swing swaying slightly beneath them. Maggie looks up at her, her face framed by dark hair, and her brows furrow a little in confusion. _Sophia told me that you took care of her out there,_ Carol explains herself, eyes drifting over to the porch steps across the road where the boy named Carl is showing her daughter a comic book. _That you kept her safe._

 

Maggie sighs, drawing Carol's attention back to her. She's still young, but she carries a weariness with her. All her kind smiles wavering.

 

_She's a sweet girl,_ Maggie says quietly, more to herself than to Carol. _Glenn and I-_ She stops talking instantly, almost like the named burned her tongue. Softly, her eyes close and she lowers her head. Carol sifts through her memories of everything Sophia told her, but the name sounds only vaguely familiar.

 

_Was he your husband?_ she asks carefully, and Maggie nods slowly, her finger twirling a delicate ring on her finger.

 

It's such a different picture than herself, Carol wonders. When Sophia confirmed that Ed was dead - torn apart and eaten alive - she felt nothing but relief. Maggie however, turns into a shadow at the mention of the man she lost to this world. _I'm sorry._

 

 

 

Something about Daryl’s behavior towards Sophia reminds Carol of those first few days after they left Atlanta. He's a little gruff, not too bad, nothing her daughter can't handle. Too quiet. Avoids her when he can and when he can't, he doesn't initiate conversation and replies with short-cut answers. It took him such a long time to be vulnerable enough around her to grant her a glimpse at the person hiding behind all those layers of rough concrete, and Carol understands that Sophia doesn't get a free pass. Nobody does.

 

Still, she feels a heaviness in her heart when Daryl seems to fall back into old patterns around her little girl. When he takes on the same persona for brief moments that kept him alive all his life.

Something is different, though. Even within the distance he keeps, she can feel a familiar softness radiating, waiting patiently for Daryl to be ready to show it.

 

_She likes you, you know?_ Her voice is hoarse and thick with sleep, and she can barely keep her eyes open. The soft mattress and cool sheets are like a lullaby, and she curls into Daryl's side with a content sigh. It's peaceful like this, if she blends out the crossbow leaning against Daryl’s side of the bed.

 

_Hmm?_ he hums, slipping his arm beneath her so she can rest comfortably on his shoulder. A warm hand falls into place against her back, radiating heat even through her soft shirt.

 

_Sophia,_ she explains, forcing her eyes to open and looking up at him. He's staring at the ceiling again. _She likes you._

 

He's quiet for a long moment, and if she couldn't see the moonlight twinkling in his eyes, she'd think he finally went to sleep. Then he nods, mumbles something incoherent under his breath, and closes his eyes.

 

Unwilling to surrender this easily, Carol rests her hand over his chest, feeling his heartbeat under her palm. After a minute ticks by agonizingly slowly, Daryl reaches up with his free hand and entwines their fingers, and Carol hopes that all he needs is a little more time.

 

* * *

 

The first month is sharp-edged, unforgiving and honest. With each passing day it's becoming clearer that they are here to stay, and he scraps together everything he has to make it work. To do the work required to fit in. To smile and answer and hold Carol's hand as they walk down the sunlit streets. But none of it is _him_.

 

 

 

The first time he goes beyond the walls again to hunt, he feels nearly suffocated by the sudden freedom. Nothing confines him here, there's no fake politeness and shallow conversation. It's just him and the wild, and he's terrified when he realizes how easy it would be to slip away. To not return.

 

Carol and Sophia would be safe, well taken care of and protected in Alexandria. But there's little temptation to the idea. He can't be without Carol anymore, can not stand to even consider her out here for one more minute of her life, either. And he'll do all it takes to keep her little girl safe now if only to ensure the smile on Carol's face and the shimmer in her eyes would last for a long, _long_ time.

 

He gravitates back to Alexandria like it's his true North, but still it feels like chains are dragging him back, the cold press of them never quite easing, no matter how far away he strays.

 

 

 

He brings back a deer the third time he goes hunting, and the entire community completely loses it. People shake his hand and clap his shoulder, thank him as if they'd been starving before now. In the crowd that has gathered around him, Daryl desperately searches for Carol, overwhelmed by everyone's reaction.

 

He's suffocating between them all, but there's also a small flame of pride that simmers deep inside him. When he finally spots her, silver hair peeking out between many cheerful faces, he doesn't miss the catch in her smile. The fire that only burned low before igniting violently that same instant.

 

He struggles to get away from everybody, drags the deer to the pantry, his neck prickling when Carol follows him.

 

_Sophia?_ he asks when they finally, finally step through the front door of their house, his palms sweaty and his skin tingling. Carol shuts the door, the click of the lock sending a jolt of electricity down the length of his spine.

 

_With Carl and Michonne,_ she answers plainly, catching her bottom lip between her teeth and it's all he can take.

 

He crosses the distance between them in two wide strides, and for the first time since they arrived here, he is the one to initiate a kiss. It knocks the breath out of both of them, Carol's back hitting the door with a dull thud. Tugging impatiently at buttons and uncooperative fabric, they barely make it up the stairs, and he groans when his hand slips inside her underwear on the fourth step, feeling her slick and warm. He glides inside easily, her fingers gripping his shoulders to the point of pain, and she clings to him with a whimper on her lips.

 

It doesn't surprise him when Carol pulls a condom from the drawer in her bedside table – he'd seen her blushing as she put something in there a few days before. He's just grateful now, sucking at the tender skin of her neck as she pushes his already unbuckled pants over his hips and curls her hand around him.

 

_Fuck,_ he hisses, palming her still covered breast as Carol kicks off her shoes and shimmies out of her pants, the green fabric pooling at their feet.

 

He moves towards the bed, but Carol has other plans, stroking him feverishly and curling a leg around his hip until he presses against the damp fabric of her underwear.

 

_Carol-_ he nearly chokes on her name, reaching down to pull it aside enough for him to nudge against her just right. _Do ya-_

 

_Just do it!_ Carol insists impatiently, tilting her hips forward. _Please._

 

He makes love to her right there and then, sinks into her with a groan, his hands curled around her thighs as he lifts her up against the wall. It's messy, harsher than usual, his thrusts deeper, harder, the wall chafing against Carol's back – but she never once tells him to stop, tightens around him with each passing second, claws at his shoulders and mouths words into the side of his neck that drive him beyond the point of control.

 

It's like nothing else exists but them for a little while.

 

_I hurt ya?_ he asks after, when he's spent and barely able to hold himself up. Carol hums into his neck, the warmth of her breath tickling his ear.

 

_No,_ she assures him, pressing her lips to his scorching skin. _You couldn't._

 

(but he knows that he _can_ , perhaps more than anyone else, and it scares the shit out of him.)

 

 

 

That same night, they are invited for dinner at Aaron and Eric's place, and he puts up less of a fight than he might have before. And he has to admit that the spaghetti taste pretty damn good. But they can't make up for the fact that he doesn't have a clue what to add to the polite conversation happening around him.

 

Carol, however, tries her best to make this easy for him. Steers the topics in his direction, asks for his opinion, praises him. He hides a blush more than once, especially when she grasps his hand under the table and squeezes.

 

After, when she's busy helping Eric clean up the kitchen, Aaron takes him to the garage. His heartbeat picks up and adrenaline pumps through his veins when he sees the half-assembled bike right there within his grasp.

 

Memories buzz through his veins of the bike left behind in the streets of Atlanta. Of his brother's proud voice. Of the rush of cool air hitting his skin.

 

_I'm trying to put her back together._

 

It's not the bike in itself that causes it. The flip that happens inside of him. His stomach churns a little at the force with which it hits. But maybe, just maybe, this place is worth giving a damn about, after all.

 

 

 

_Can you teach me?_ Sophia's voice doesn't startle him. Kid might not weigh more than ninety pounds soaking wet, but it's not like he didn't hear her coming. He looks up from the crossbow perched on his thighs, the sun blinding him a little. She's standing on the porch with a kind smile, a smile that resembles her mother's so much.

 

_What'ya talkin' bout?_ he asks, cursing himself for not knowing how to act around her, or what to say. It's not that he doesn't like kids – although she's far from a kid these days, after everything she must have endured. He just doesn't know how to talk to her, who to _be_ around her. He ain't her damn father, has no right to presume to be that just because he and Carol... He doesn't bloody want to be the kid's dad. He just wants...

 

_To shoot,_ Sophia replies, pointing at the crossbow he's been cleaning. _I'm not that great with a gun, but maybe you can teach me how to shoot that._

 

He scoffs, taking in the sight of her thin arms and legs. _Nah, too heavy for ya._

 

Instantly, the girl looks disappointed, and he feels like the biggest asshole in the world. She's been denied too much in her life, mostly a happy childhood, and he realizes with a start that the idea of giving her a moment of joy and pride gravely weighs out his fears of making a fool of himself around her.

 

_But I could show ya how to shoot them guns proper,_ he suggest with a quieter voice, dropping the dirty rag onto the chair, wiping his hands on his pants. _If ya want._

 

Her bright eyes lighten up and she sways a little on the balls of her feet, nodding enthusiastically. The smile it conjures on his face works muscles he hasn't used in too long.

 

 

 

Its terrifyingly easy to fall into a pattern here. He goes hunting two or three times a week, soaks in the freedom and fresh air it offers, but he gets more and more eager to return to Alexandria each time. For the first time in his life, he has something to genuinely look forward to. Fixing the bike, talking to Aaron. Going back home to warm meals and quiet evenings with Carol and Sophia telling him about their days. Sometimes Carl joins them for dinner, a shy but cunning kid, capable beyond his years.

 

He's so fond of Sophia that Daryl has to suppress a smirk every now and again, meeting Carol's gaze across the table, a sweet smile on her lips.

 

If he's not hunting, he takes watch shifts, the quiet welcome. Sometimes, he goes on supply runs with some of the other, rare but not an unwelcome change, either. He can go further out, taste the real world.

 

Because as addictive as the comforts of their new home are, he's determined not to let them numb his senses again. He won't allow this place to make him as weak as the island did.

 

But when he sits on the couch with Carol curled into his side and Sophia discussing with Carl about some random comic book they found, it feels almost... Normal. Like the illusion of a happy family is real, like none of the horrors that lead them here existed.

 

Most days, he feels like he's living someone else's dream. And he's so fucking scared of waking up alone.

 

 

 

He just can't get it out of his mind. It's always there, like a slowly festering wound that won't stop itching. A fear that is rooted to the very marrow of his bones.

 

At night when Carol sleep by his side, he presses his palm against the flat plane of her stomach. Wondering. He watches her carefully, every sign that she might feel unwell, how much she does and does not eat. It's exhausting to keep up.

 

But Carol _knows_ what's on his mind and brings it up before he can gather the courage to ask her. Her confession doesn't ease his worry in the slightest. She doesn't know if she's pregnant or not, and even just the possibility is crashing over him like an icy wave. He pleads with her to see the doctor, but she refuses; her entire body tenses at the mere mention of the man, and it would take Daryl a few more days to understand why.

 

So, he does the only thing he can think of to get some clarity. When Deanna's sons start talking about going on a run to an apothecary, he volunteers to come along. He doesn't like either of them one bit, think of them as no more than naive and presumptuous fools.

 

He brings home two tests wrapped in blue plastic, and Carol takes them from his trembling hands with a look in her eyes that's weary.

 

She's not pregnant, though, and the weight falls from both their shoulders. They were careless on the road, and he still blames himself for allowing it to even happen.

 

When then second test is negative, too, they both fall silent. It's all the proof they need, but suddenly they both linger there, sitting cross-legged on the bed in the middle of the afternoon. Outside, kids are playing, their laughter carrying inside through the open window.

 

_Do you think we would have made good parents?_ Carol asks with a soft voice that sounds like an echo, lost in thought. Delicately, she sets the stick down on the bedside table, folding her hands in her lap. _If we'd met sooner?_

 

The thought stings like a venomous bite. Imagining that they could have met sooner fills him with a dreadfully long list of _what ifs_ and _if onlys_. He shrugs, having never really considered having any kids. Even if he'd met someone to settle down with, he doubts he would have been very suited for the job. A childhood full of pain and suffering has prevented him from knowing what a good father needs to be.

 

_You're a great mom,_ he replies instead. It's one thing he is sure of without any doubt.

 

When a bright smile breaks out on her face, cheeks glowing, it's suddenly all too easy to imagine. Her belly round, her skin soft and smooth and warm to the touch, a small baby cradled in his arms, resting at her breast, sleeping in a crib he would have build.

 

His hands moves without much prompting from him, reaching across the distance until his fingers trail gently along her stomach. _Guess we'd have figured it out,_ he mutters, the picture he's painting in his mind as sweet as honey and yet so very bitter because it belongs to a past they weren’t granted.

 

Carol's hand covers his own. _We would've figured this out, too._ Her words are sincere and when he looks into her eyes, he's not surprised to see the same conflict that he feels tearing him up inside.

 

As she curls into his side, Daryl wonders how their relief over not having forced an innocent life into this dreadful world could have turned into a mournful sorrow so quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said this would be the last chapter, and I really wanted it to be. But the chapter was simply getting too long, so I decided to split it into two. You'll get the second half this weekend :)


	10. finish.

The first year feels like a shift in her life. A change for the better. Some days, Carol feels guilty that the world had to end and millions of people had to die for her to finally find peace.

 

 

 

_You should've woken me._ Anger seeps from her voice, her arms crossed defiantly across her chest. The room is dimly lit by the lamp on the bedside table, the smell of her shampoo filling the air - coconut, a hint of extravagance, the promise of sandy beaches and luscious palm trees. But she's too restless to allow her mind to wander there.

 

She's angry at Daryl, too angry to feel bad about the confusion she caused. He lingers by the door with furrowed brows, arms covered in sweat and dirt, blood beginning to crust on his pants.

 

_Ya knew I was goin' out._ He sounds tired and exhausted, but there's a forgiving edge to his voice that speak of genuine regret.

 

_Still,_ she insists.

 

With a sigh, Daryl sets the crossbow down by the door and steps over towards her. Annoyed, Carol shifts her weight on her bare feet, staring determinedly at the wall behind him when he steps into her space. Two warm hands curl gently around her arms and pry them out of their rigid cross, and she feels some of her anger easing up when he trails his fingers down over the crease of her elbow, down towards her wrist until he entwines their fingers. Leaning down, he presses his forehead against hers. He smells of the woods, of damp earth and fresh sweat, and her eyes flutter shut. Hit by a familiar wave of gratefulness that he is back, she leans into him.

 

_You didn't let me say goodbye,_ she whispers weakly, aware that by the tremor in her voice she's finally admitting how terrified she is whenever Daryl goes out there. He hums something that she can't make out, and when his lips brush ever so slightly against hers, she sighs into the kiss. Her hands find their way around the back of his neck, fingers curling into his hair as she holds him to her.

 

_Told ya I ain't gonna leave ya,_ Daryl murmurs against her lips when he pulls away just barely, and his eyes are wide open and honest when she opens her own. Tears dwell in them and she doesn't bother blinking them away, knows for sure that he can see them glistening in the pools of blue.

 

His hand comes up to cup her cheek, ready to smudge away the shy teardrops. _You know you can't promise that_ , Carol whispers, every word full of fear.

 

 

 

Those of them who came to Alexandria _after_ , who have seen what's waiting outside the walls, they never really talk about it. She knows why. Knows they all share the same reason that silences them. They have all seen too much, lost too much.

 

Still, after a while Carol begins to understand the dangers lurking within their sheltered little world. As time goes by, she begins to see things the way Daryl saw them early on. It's all a facade, one she wants desperately to hold onto. But nothing lasts forever, memories of the island still raging in her mind like the tempest that took it from them.

 

It takes her a good long while, but after weeks of persisting, Deanna agrees to conduct a proper weapons training for all residents of Alexandria. Carol isn’t shy to admit to the woman how helpless she was at the start, how dependent she was on Daryl - a stranger - to keep her alive. The world outside is less dangerous and less terrifying now that she knows how to protect herself and those she cares for. And every person living behind these walls should be prepared for what lurks outside should they ever be forced to leave.

 

She watches the first lesson from her front porch, more than a dozen people rowed up on the lawn, Rosita and Michonne handing out weapons. They'd volunteered to teach basic skills, had supported Carol in her decision to bring her idea to Deanna.

 

_Ya did well._ Carol smiles when Daryl steps up behind her, wrapping his arms around her stomach and resting his chin on her shoulder. _I'm proud o' ya._

 

 

 

When they find out, it's a complete coincidence. But the cozy dinner they were having is cut short when the world tilts and comes crushing down on them. For nearly an hour afterward, Carol has to comfort Sophia, dry her tears as she weeps in her arms. _I should have thought about it sooner. I should have known. I just never..._

 

_Shhh,_ Carol coos, stroking a palm over her daughter's soft hair. _You couldn't have known, sweetie._

 

After, Carol doesn’t even remember what exactly they were talking about over their plates of pasta. She only remembers how tentatively Daryl had begun to open up about his past, answering one of Sophia's stories with an anecdote from his own childhood. And for the first time in months, he mentioned his lost big brother.

 

Sophia froze, her fork clutched tightly in her grasp.

 

_Sweetie, are you okay?_ Carol asked, lowering her own fork and watching her daughter with concern.

 

_Your brother's name is Merle?_ Sophia's voice trembled, and she stared blankly ahead.

 

Carol instantly sought out Daryl’s gaze, his eyes widening.

 

_Yes,_ he confirmed, pushing his plate away. All appetite long forgotten. The single word alone was enough to bring down the last of Sophia's composure and she broke out in dry sobs, her fork cluttering noisily onto the table.

 

_I'm so sorry,_ she breathed, sucking in her breath. Carol listened silently then as her little girl recounted her days on the road. When she revealed that she knew a man named Merle Dixon, that he was part of their camp near Atlanta. Over and over she scattered apologies into her breathless tale, repeating how she didn't think of a connection until now. The picture painted itself in blood when she revealed that he was left behind in Atlanta, that she doesn't know what happened exactly. That all those who were there that day were dead now. Daryl stiffened in his chair, hands curled into fists as she continued, hope briefly flaring in his eyes when Sophia revealed that they ran into his brother once again. Much later.

 

But Carol feared the end of the story, understood why her little girl suddenly looked at Daryl with fear in her eyes.

 

Merle is gone, and before Sophia could even finish her last sentence, Daryl roughly moved his chair back. It fell to the ground with a crash, Sophia and Carol both flinching. But Daryl marched past it without any visible reaction, crashing through the front door and disappearing into the night.

 

 

Morning is about to break when Carol hears footsteps on the stairs. Sighing, she turns around, the mattress shifting a little beneath her. She hasn't slept for one minute all night, staring out at the stars with the curtains wide open.

 

Quietly, the door pushes open, and Daryl’s silhouette comes into view, face illuminated by the moonlight. He lingers for a moment, fidgeting with his hands before he kicks off his boots.

Carol waits silently, fighting the tears she feels dwelling at the injustice of it all.

 

When he slips into bed beside her, she seeks him out instantly, curls into his side and cradles his face between her palms. _I'm sorry, Daryl,_ she whispers hoarsely, pressing her forehead to his. One of his hands finds the dip of her waist, resting there as a reassuring presence. _We found Sophia and-_ Guilt overwhelms her, but Daryl doesn't let her drown in it.

 

_'s all right,_ he interrupts, squeezing her waist and pulling her closer to him. The kiss he gives her then is fueled by grief, desperate and sloppy and they both breathe raggedly when they part. She'll give him what he needs, Carol decides, but then she sees the tears glistening in his eyes.

 

She holds him when the sobs break free, strokes her hand up and down his bare back until he falls quiet, until his breathing turns even. He doesn't wake until mid day, but she never strays from his side.

 

 

 

_No way._

 

_Please._

 

_No._

 

Carol sighs in defeat, sinking down onto one of the bar stools in the kitchen. Silently, she trails her finger over the smooth granite counter top, spotlessly clean. A plate of cookies sits in the middle, the smell of fresh baking still clinging densely to the air.

 

To say her suggestion of taking a trip together has met little enthusiasm would be an understatement. Daryl is defensive, arms crossed in front of his chest as he leans against the stove.

 

She just wanted him to take her outside for a few hours, just the two of them in the wilderness - like before. Sometimes, she misses the old days, the intimacy of being in no other company but each other's. When he is out there, the woods and fields become his sanctuary, and she longed for him to share it with her. But he was quick to shut down the idea, and now she feels silly for ever bringing it up.

 

_Listen,_ Daryl says after a prolonged and heavy silence, his voice gentler now. _I can't, all right?_ His words are curious and Carol looks up, surprised to see raw fear reflected in his eyes. His voice breaks a little under the strain of probably being embarrassed about saying them when he continues. _Can't think of ya out there again, with all them walkers and psychos. 's just-_ He drops his arms, scratches his chin. A nervous habit.

 

He's quick when he steps over towards the counter and reaches out to cover both her hands with his own. _It's safe here, Carol. I can't think straight if-_ completely at loss, he falls silent, eyes flickering between her face and their hands - one pair pale and clean, the other always covered in dust.

 

She understands his fear better than he knows, and so Carol turns her hands until his fingers slip between hers, all her disappointment melting away.

 

_How do you think I feel when_ you _go out there?_

 

 

 

Outside, thick snow flakes are falling, the streets and lawns of Alexandria covered in a soft, white blanket. The small lake is frozen, glistening whenever a ray of sunlight fights its way through the veil of clouds above.

 

Inside, the house smells of pine needles and cinnamon, a hint of orange peel from the scented candles she lit earlier. Carol watches with a smile as Sophia unwraps Daryl's present, wrapped in shiny paper printed with elks and owls. Behind her, the tall tree that Daryl dragged in a few days ago towers - a _real_ tree, covered entirely in Christmas ornaments of all shapes and colors. It doesn't matter that they can't waste electricity on fairy lights. It's perfect just the way it is.

 

Candles flicker all over the room and Carol curls her hands tighter around the mug of Christmas themed tea - it tastes faintly of gingerbread, childhood memories awakening inside her.

 

_Oh my God!_ Sophia gasps, eyes brightening as she takes in whatever was wrapped in the mountain of paper now gathered on her lap. A little clumsily she scrambles over towards where Daryl sits with flushed cheek - all of them still dressed in their pajamas - and hugs him so tightly that he sways backwards towards the tree a little.

 

Happy tears dwell in Carol's eyes and she shifts a little, resting her head against the armrest of the couch. Beneath her, the carpet is soft, her feet well warmed in woolen socks. She watches silently as Daryl awkwardly pets Sophia's back, her little girl thanking him over and over, his blush only growing worse.

 

Carol's curiosity is sparked, but the mountain of wrapping paper makes it impossible for her to make out the present from here, and Daryl had been immensely secretive about it over the past week. She'll find out soon enough, she muses, the sight of the two most important people in her life sharing such a sweet and caring moment overwhelming her.

 

Past Christmases haunt her. Those were the happiest, most peaceful days of her life every year. Ed would make an effort, put on a smile. But it was always merely a facade, a pretense. This, however, is real.

 

_Ya crushing me, kid,_ Daryl chuckles then, and Sophia quickly sits back on her knees. Her hands remain on Daryl’s shoulders, though.

 

_Ups, sorry,_ she quips, her own cheeks flaming red, but her lips spread into the widest possible grin.

 

 

 

Carol breaks away from the kiss and smiles when Daryl makes a disappointed and disgruntled sound, lifting his head to seek out her lips again. It's quiet and gentle, the sheets around them warm, her pajama top pushed up just enough so Daryl can trail his warm fingers along the ridges of her spine. Neither of them moves to push any further than this, and it is everything she could want, the exact same way she would wish for this perfect Christmas day to end. Outside, the snow has picked up even more, but in here, everything is warm and cozy.

 

_I was thinking...,_ she says with a slightly hoarse and breathless voice, feeling the heat in her cheeks and the dampness on her kiss-swollen lips. In the confines of her ribcage, her heart thunders nervously. Truly, she's only been thinking about this for a few hours, a spontaneous idea that's been swirling in her mind all day long. But judging by the nervous tingles she feels sparking in her veins, she might as well have been meticulously planning this for weeks.

 

_'bout what?_ Daryl asks, cupping her cheek in his palm and nudging his nose against hers. She balances her weight on her side, one leg draped over Daryl’s thigh, her hand flat on his chest. Looking at her fingers instead of his face, she turns the words over and over in her mouth. Trying to find the right way to say this.

 

_Maybe it's silly, but..._ Trailing off into silence, she begins to toy with a button on Daryl’s shirt, a part of her ready to just drop this subject and go back to kissing him. But she has sparked Daryl’s interest now, and not a handful of seconds later his finger hooks under her chin and gently raises her head until she has to face him.

 

Even in the dim light of the moon and a single candle on the bedside table, she can see how his face glows, how sharp his eyes are. _Hey, tell me._ His voice is quiet, warm, gentle. Not pushing, but pleading with her not to hide in a shell.

 

Oh, to hell with it.

 

_Would you marry me?_ She didn't quite intent to blurt it out like this, and they both stop breathing at the same time. For a good long minute, they are silent, staring at each other with wide eyes. Then, slowly,  Daryl’s eyes begin to flicker away from hers, his lips twitching, and then he scoffs.

 

_Stop,_ he drawls, his old familiar way of dismissing her joking advances and exaggerated attempts to seduce him. Usually, she's fond of the word on his lips, but not now. This wasn't meant as a joke.

 

_I mean it,_ she insists, slightly grasping the fabric of his shirt, feeling his heart rate picking up speed.

 

He is silent again, but this time, his eyes scan her face, looking for any sign that she's just joking after all. Its hurtful that he would still doubt her, but only because she can fathom all too well what he had to endure to render his confidence so fragile. _For real?_ There's so much hope and wonder in his voice, and when she nods shyly, he crosses the distance between them in a heartbeat. Her chest swells with all the love she has for him when he kisses her, drawing her against him and breathing her in, crawling under her skin.

 

_Course I will,_ he hums into the kiss, and she nearly misses the words when her own moan renders them nearly inaudible. His hand has moved to her hip, tugged her up until she's laying half on top of him. It's all shifted now, her blood rushing in her ears, her skin prickling as she slips a hand under the hem of his shirt, grazing her nails through the sparse hair below his belly button.

 

Daryl groans slightly, but then he's grasping her wrist and holding it in place before she can move it anywhere else. _Can't,_ he gasps as he tears his mouth away from hers. _Ran outta condoms the other night._

 

She knows. Sucks at the skin of his neck anyway, cherishing the deep rumble it stirs in his chest. The hand on her hip tightens its grip in an almost encouraging way, a stark contrast to the fingers curled intently around her wrist.

 

_Maybe we can... risk it?_ she whispers into the crook of his neck, watching his body tremble as her warm breath tickles him just below his ear. He tenses a little, pulling back enough to look at her.

In his eyes, she can see all that she pictures in her own head. All the lost what ifs. The way their lives are now (the walls and houses and the people and Sophia, everything they never even dared to dream of having). They can do more than just survive here. She wants more than that.

 

Ever since that day they found out their careless moment of weakness on the road carried no consequences, she toyed with the idea of it. With the possibility that it might have been. And over the last few months, the idea grew, slowly but steadily.

 

She wants to build a life here. With him. The kind of life they should have had. It might be a risky choice, but so has been every other they've made since the start.

 

Daryl swallows deftly, gently uncurling his fingers from her wrist to rest his hand on the side of her neck. Even she can feel her pulse point thrumming there. _Ya wanna?_ he asks, his voice low and nearly breaking apart.

 

All she can do is nod, and when Daryl kisses her this time, it's full of promise. He makes love to her with warm sheets tangled around them and the taste of cinnamon on their breaths, fingers entwined and lips unwilling to part as they move. When he comes apart above her, Carol nuzzles her face into his neck, curls her legs tighter around his waist. Holds him close.

 

In that moment, she understands that no matter how their lives will turn out, it's all worth having been given the chance to live this moment.

 

* * *

 

 

The second year is a warning, a stark reminder that Alexandria does not exist outside the realm of this world, and that reality can come crushing down upon them at any moment.

 

 

 

When Carol does not get pregnant, they don't dwell on it. Maybe it's not meant to be, maybe this world has taken more of a toll on them than they've realized – or maybe, just maybe, their time has come and gone.

 

They have Sophia. And for the first time in his life, Daryl begins to understand what it truly means to be a family. They have all they need, and so much more than either of them ever dared to hope for.

 

Some days, however, he catches Carol standing naked in front of the bathroom mirror, trailing her hand first through her silver hair and then down to the flat plane of her stomach, across freckles and milky skin. An inaudible sigh usually carries on her lips, her eyes wistful. Those days, he allows himself to feel the same mournfulness, the same disappointment.

 

Still, he never allows it last for long, wraps his arms around her and kisses her exposed shoulder. Waiting for the smile that she has reserved for him.

 

 

 

He isn't at all surprised when Aaron asks him to go on recruiting trips together. Hell, he's been waiting for the question for days, did not miss the way Aaron seemed to linger in the garage door when he worked on the bike, something always left unsaid.

 

After Eric was injured a few weeks ago, Aaron has been pitching the idea of finding someone else permanently. Daryl gets it. He doesn't want Carol out there, neither. No because he doesn't trust her to defend herself – hell, he ain't got much more skill than she does at this point – but the mere thought of one slip, one wrong step and everything being lost, that's too much for him to bear.

 

_Sorry, man,_ he says, wiping his hands on his red cloth. Aaron looks disappointed but not surprised, nodding in understanding. _Don't think I'm the right guy for that._

 

He assumes that would settle it. But Aaron's next words hit him unprepared. _I think you're exactly the right guy. You know people. You know the difference between good and bad. And you know this world out there._

 

It takes him four days, but he accepts.

 

On their first recruiting trip, they bring in a couple, young and a little too quirky for his taste. But they're good people, he can tell.

 

 

 

The night a herd breeches the walls is a stark reminder that not even a place as well thought-out and protected as Alexandria is immune or build to last forever.

 

In the dark of the night, he tries to keep Carol and Sophia as close to him as possible, but with the streets in mayhem, there is little he can do to keep them safe. Come morning, all of them are covered in blood, the streets of Alexandria lined with piles of dead bodies, and the sorrowful certainty of having to add more than a few names in bold letters to the wall.

 

But they made it work, made it through.

 

Sophia falls asleep with her head on his shoulder as they wait outside the infirmary. Her hair is a tangled mess, strands of it sticking to drying blood spatters on her cheeks, and the orange light of dawn is casting shadows on her pale, peaceful face. Not for the first time, Daryl wonders what he must've done right to deserve this.

 

The door opens with a creak and Sophia shudders, drowsy eyes fluttering open.

 

_'s all right,_ he whispers, curling an arm around her shoulder, running his thumb along her thin upper arm. _Go back to sleep, kid._

 

 

 

Leaning against the door frame, Daryl watches as Carol bends down to tie up her boots, foot propped up against the side of the bed frame. Her gun is laying on the neatly made bed, the peach-colored comforter with the embroidered flowers making for a terrible backdrop. _Where are you going?_ he asks, not at all surprised when Carol doesn't even flinch at the sound of his voice. She heard him come in, heard him going up the stairs.

 

Outside, the afternoon is crisp and bright, the sun high in the sky. He can still feel the echo of its warmth tingling on his exposed arms, the sensation reminding him of Georgia. He doesn't dare call it home.

 

It's too late for her to walk down to the school to teach, though, and he steps inside their bedroom curiously. He kicked off his own dusty shoes downstairs, his socked feet making barely a sound against the hardwood floors now.

 

Carol turns to him, a brief smile flickering across her face before she reaches down and picks up the gun. _I'm taking over guard duty for Michonne,_ she explains, holstering the gun. _She wanted to take Carl out._

 

Nodding, Daryl sits down on the edge of the bed. _Sophia goin' with them?_

 

Carol's eyes snap up at him, and she sighs. _No._ This is not the first time this topic has come up, and it's a strenuous conversation each time. Sophia is eager to go outside the walls with Carl and Enid, confident enough in her skills not to be afraid. And that's what scares the shit out of him. Constantly caught between not wanting to keep her locked up in this place (understanding all too well how suffocating it can be) and wanting to keep her safe.

 

Carol sinks her teeth into her lower lip, clearly weighing her next words. He already knows them before she finally says them out loud. _But maybe we should let her, some time,_ she suggests carefully. It's not his reaction she's afraid of, he knows that. But her own decision. _When Michonne's with them, it'll be fine._

 

It's obvious how difficult the words are for her to say, the prospect of allowing her little girl beyond the walls when she has spent two years thinking she was dead is more than Carol is able to take without crumbling a little. Sitting down on the bed beside him, she quickly reaches for his hand, squeezing.

 

Sophia is not a little girl anymore, though. And they only know breadcrumbs of what she has endured on the road during those years she believed her mommy was dead, too.

 

Sighing uneasily, Daryl presses a kiss to Carol's temple.

 

_Maybe._

 

 

 

The shirt he is wearing feels stiff, Carol's hand curled around his own sweaty despite the slight chill. Around them, muffled sobs act as an orchestra to Deanna's speech. The woman's voice breaks on every other word, her son's name never passing her lips without a quiet sob.

 

Scratching the back of his neck, Daryl takes in the somber sight around him. The small makeshift graveyard cradled against the wall. Everyone's faces pale, their eyes cast downwards. Four fresh graves – all of them empty. The names written on the wooden markers a sad reminder of the truth.

 

Spencer. Nicholas. Heath. Rosita.

 

It was supposed to be nothing more than a simple supply run. Routine. Not unlike the countless ones he has done in the past. But it spun out of control, escalated. And when Michonne returned and stood in the gate soaked in blood without supplies or the rest of their people, the community grew quiet.

 

That was two days ago.

 

The loss is palpable, so many of them taken all at once leaves a weeping gap within them.

 

Sucking in a shuddering breath, Daryl curls his finger tighter around Carol's. She believes it's an act of comfort, leaning her head against his shoulder in response. But it's not his intention. No.

 

Eyes glued to Rosita's name, Daryl suddenly feels achingly cold. She'd asked him to switch with her, wanted him to take her place. Now, he doesn't even remember the reason she gave him.

 

It hardly matters, not when he said no because he wanted to help Carol set up the new blackboard for the school – and now Rosita is gone. Nothing more than an empty grave.

 

He hasn't told Carol that it might have been his name on that marker. Doesn't want to upset her. But as sudden as the realization came, it's overwhelming. Knowing that this is all he might end up being – an empty grave.

 

 

 

The gun shot tears through the night and he sits up in bed within a second, heart pounding furiously in his ribcage. Carol jolts awake by his side, the blanket falling away as she sits up to reveal her naked skin, shimmering in the moonlight.

 

Panic flares in her eyes and Daryl reaches for the gun on the bedside table, slips out of bed easily. They hurry to pull on at least some clothes, slipping into the boots they always keep by the bed.

 

Sophia rushes out of her room when they head down the hall, eyes wide.

 

_Stay close,_ Daryl instructs them both, and they head to the door and into the night. It can't be walkers. Not more than one anyway. There was only one shot.

 

Outside, many others are spilling out of their houses and onto the street – it's like a scene from a movie, many of them dressed in their sleepwear, shoes and sometimes coats lazily thrown on, some of them clutching weapons. The moonlight shines down from above, not obscured by the clouds, and all of their breaths turn into fine mist in the chilly night.

 

Carl runs into them with panting breaths and wide eyes. _It was Jessie,_ he explains, reaching for Sophia's hand. _She..._ He shakes his head, and Daryl doesn't miss the way Carol freezes, her eyes glazed. _She shot him. Pete._

 

It's Sophia who breaks down, who has tears streaming down her face. Carl watches in silent terror as Carol is ripped from her trance, when she cradles her daughter against her chest and whispers soothingly into her ear. Silent tears spilling from her own eyes.

 

They aren't born from grief.

 

Daryl sends Carl home with them, presses his hand reassuringly into Carol's back as they turn to leave. _It's over,_ he mutters quietly, and Carol nods weakly.

 

He helps clean up the mess, after. Watches as Maggie and Deanna lead a shivering Jessie out of her house, her older son standing silently by the front door, the younger one clutching his mother's hand like a lifeline.

 

Inside, there's blood everywhere. Splattered on the beige couch and the soft, gray carpet, dotting the walls. He wonders how one shot created such a hell of a mess. They carry the bastard's body outside, and Daryl catches himself thinking that he didn't suffer enough for what he did.

 

For what they all allowed him to do in silent acceptance. Because he was their only doctor.

 

But that's the last thing on his mind when he stands over the man's corpse, most of his face blown away, bits and pieces of flesh and bone and teeth still weeping blood, brain matter gathering on the damp grass.

 

It's Ed's face he pictures. And all the things he would have done to him. None of it would have been enough.

 

* * *

 

 

The third year, he breaks his promise.

 

 

 

Later, Carol tells herself that he just left because she was feeling sick the night before, tossing and turning with a fine sheen of sweat on her forehead. That has to be why he didn't say goodbye, why he didn't kiss her temple and whisper _see you in a few days_ before he quietly slipped out of their bedroom – because she finally fell asleep and found some rest. He didn't want to disturb her.

 

But when Carol wakes up to sunbeams tickling her face and his side of the bed cold, something stirs inside of her, a darkness she isn't quite familiar with.

 

 

 

They never know quite how long it will take Aaron and Daryl to return from their recruiting trips – it's dependent on so many factors. If they find someone, who it is, how long they choose to follow and watch them before approaching them. Simple things like how many walkers they run into, the weather. Everything.

 

It is the uncertainty that causes each of her days to stretch out longer than the one before, time passing slowly as she keeps gazing out the school's windows, peeking at the gate.

 

But the days pass, and it doesn't open.

 

 

 

Heavy raindrops wash over the streets of Alexandria the day the gate finally opens. Aaron stumbles inside, supported by Michonne who climbed down from her guard post without a second of hesitation. He is pale, shaking. Exhausted and on foot, neither the car nor Daryl's bike anywhere to be seen.

 

Carol hears the gate opening as she closes up the school, freezes for one moment before rushing there. The rain soaks into her clothes, cotton and denim sticking to her skin, her hair drenched. It's cold and uncomfortable, but it all fades away the moment she breaks through the small crowd that has gathered by the gate and sees Aaron walking towards them.

 

He finds her face in the crowd, eyes turning glossy.

 

_We got separated,_ he explains hoarsely, his voice already sounding more like an echo. Attached to a place somewhere far away. _A herd._

 

Carol walks away with numb limbs, barely hears the many calls of her name, doesn't take much note of the hands grasping at her until eventually, they all surrender.

 

The door of their bedroom falls shut behind her, and she sinks to the ground in silent defeat.

 

 

 

The infirmary smells of disinfectant and the underlying metallic stench of blood. Carol can feel her eyes watering at the smell, taking a deep breath through her mouth in hopes of keeping her meager breakfast down. She hasn't eaten anything else all day, but not even now as the sun is setting does she feel hunger. She feels nothing except a vast emptiness that has taken hold.

 

Denise passes her in the hallway, her eyes red and puffy, and Carol finds herself wishing that the kind woman's tears could be her own. With a sad sigh, Denise nods towards the end of the hallway, and Carol makes her way there, trailing her fingers almost subconsciously over her throat to feel the throbbing of her pulse there.

 

Eric is perched on a chair next to Aaron's bed, his hands clasped around his, and even from here she can see the tear trails on his cheeks. Most of her attention is directed at Aaron, though, sitting propped against pillows with a bandage around his arm, a bruised face and chapped lips. He looks terrifyingly pale, almost like someone drained him of all blood and spirit.

 

The floorboards creak a little under her weight and Eric looks up, his shoulders tensing when he sees her. _I'll leave you two,_ he says quickly, leaning over to press a quick kiss to Aaron's forehead. Even as he stands from the chair and takes a cautious step away, he doesn't quite let go of Aaron's hands yet, looks utterly unwilling to leave.

 

Eventually, and with one last glance over his shoulder, Eric steps away. He hurries past her and not even a few seconds later, Carol hears the sound of the closing front door.

 

She lingers in the doorway for a moment, suddenly feeling cold. Her limbs feel like lead when she steps over to the bed and sits down on the chair, taking in the sight of the bruises splotched on Aaron's face.

 

_I'm so sorry, Carol,_ he rasps. His voice is rough, coughing on the second word. He must be dehydrated, and she watches the blood on his lips as he struggles to say the words he needs to say. _I tried to get back to him but there were too many, I couldn't see._

 

She lets him speak, and yet every single word hits her like a dagger. Suddenly, her shirt feels too tight, squeezing the air out of her lungs. When he finally falls silent, she reaches for his hand (the knuckles grazed and the skin raw, and she can't bear to imagine what happened out there).

 

_Whatever happened, it's not your fault,_ she reassures him, hearing herself speak as if she were looking in on this moment from the outside. Every word is the truth, though. The last thing she wants is for Aaron to blame himself for what happened, for something he could not have prevented. It was always a matter of time, and Daryl knew the dangers of this world. Above all, she is so very grateful to Aaron for bringing them here in the first place, for very well saving their lives out there all those years ago. _He knew what it's like out there._

 

She's almost surprised by the bitterness to her voice, but it's mirrored in the utter devastation she can see in Aaron's expression and posture. It doesn't matter at all what she says to him – he'll carry the weight of this for the rest of his life. _Better than me,_ he sighs, squeezing her hand.

 

Silence takes over as the room grows darker and darker, only the small, yellow lamp on the nightstand illuminating their faces. _Do you think he's still alive?_ She's not allowing herself to hold on to hope, but she can't fight the small flicker of it that glows like embers deep inside her, a treacherous light that keeps telling her _we found sophia, she came back, we found her._

 

Aaron looks at her almost in fear of how stoic she sounds, but what else can she do? Crumbling apart is no option, not here, not now.

 

_I don't know,_ he whispers, and in his eyes she sees the ghosts of memories haunting him. _I tried reaching him, but..._ Vaguely, he points towards the foot of the bed, and only now does Carol notice the walkie, covered in dust and crusted blood.

 

 

She takes it home later, walks through the night with it clutched between her trembling fingers.

 

Later, after Sophia has fallen asleep (curled up against her, nose and eyes red, the pillow beneath her head soaked in tears), Carol slips out of the room and into the hallway. Sinking down onto the ground with her back pressed to the wall, she turns the walkie in her hand, over and over.

 

Taking a deep breath, she presses the button, holding it up.

 

_Daryl?_ It's barely more than a whisper. _It's me. Can you hear me?_ The floor is cold beneath her, but she pays no mind to the goosebumps all over her skin. _Daryl... Come back,_ she pleads, finally feeling the familiar burning of tears in her eyes. _Please._

 

All she can hear is static on the other end, and when the tears finally break free, she allows them. On the hallway floor, she cries until she can't, until sleep and exhaustion finally claim her in the early hours of down.

 

 

 

It's Aaron who insists on going back out there just a few days after Denise has send him home. Nearly a dozen people volunteer to come along, and Carol almost smiles bitterly imagining the blush on Daryl’s face at the gesture. In the end, four of them head out.

 

She doesn't wait for them at the gate. Doesn't dwell on imagining what they might find. So, when they return empty-handed, she only nods at Aaron, ignoring the disappointment on his face. She can't bear to see it, the guilt and the blame and the eagerness to make up for his mistake.

 

They found the bike, he tells her later. But that's all.

 

That night, she sits on the top step of their porch, listening as the rain patters down on the roof. Balancing the walkie in her lap, the base of it pressed against her stomach – grounding her – she trails her fingers over the button.

 

With not even the stars as her witness, she closes her eyes, pressing it.

 

_Hey,_ she whispers, trying to picture him in her mind. _It's okay, you know? We'll be fine._ Her voice is low and sweet, void of tears or sadness. She doesn't want him to hear that. If she could, she'd hold his hand now, smooth those stray strands of hair from his forehead, kiss his temple, all to reassure him that they will be all right. Safe, warm, fed. He doesn't have to worry about them.

 

_I love you._ Her exhale stutters and she clutches the walkie a little tighter, listening to the familiar static rush. Thunder roars in the distance. She takes her fingers off the button, her last words her own secret. _I miss you._

 

 

 

She doesn't want a funeral. Knows Daryl wouldn't have wanted it, either. All of them gathered around a sign with his name on it, crying, saying big words or some other _bullshit_ as he once called it.

 

Carol does, however, feel the need to somehow say goodbye to him.

 

In the end, it's six of them standing in front of the wall in the warm, orange light of dusk, a can of paint on the ground before them. Carl, Aaron, Michonne, Maggie, Sophia and herself, all standing in a half circle in front of the long list of names towering above them.

 

She leaves it to the others to add his name, each of them taking the paintbrush and adding one letter to the rusty wall. As she watches, Sophia's hand curled around hers and Michonne's pressing comfortingly against her back, Carol finally begins to understand everything.

 

Only now that he is gone does she fully grasp what he did, ever since that day in Atlanta nearly half a decade ago. Why he never strayed, why he fought so hard to push through his fears to stay here. Ever since he they first met, all he wanted was to keep her safe and happy (and it makes her smile knowing that he found his own happiness in accomplishing that).

 

Standing here, she realizes that she _is_. Safe. Loved. Not alone. He gave her that, all the way. From start to finish.

 

 

the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay.
> 
> If you're not too angry with me right now, I hope you can take a minute to read what I have to say. It's not going to be an apology, and let me explain why. 
> 
> This is how I wanted to end the story for a long, long time. But along the way, I was very hesitant about actually going through with it – because of you guys. I'm not blaming you, though. I just didn't want you all too be unhappy and disappointed. Ultimately, I decided to stick to the way I wanted to tell the story, though. 
> 
> What I hope becomes clear is that I did not intend for this story to turn into an angst bomb, to kill off Daryl just to torture you guys. I know it's probably painful, but that's not the intention behind this. In the end, I wanted to bring the story full circle. Also, to me, this story was always about showing that behind every moment of happiness or security they had, there was always something else lingering beneath. 
> 
> I didn't want to end it on a massively sad note, though. At first glance, that's probably exactly what I did. But I hope that I managed to at least somehow show how happy they were, and that Carol isn't left behind with nothing. 
> 
> I'm sending you all good vibes for the season premiere tonight, and lots of cuddles to make up for this chapter *hugs*


End file.
